


and nobody counting our days

by subwaycars



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Sheith Big Bang 2019, Team as Family, Typical Hockey Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaycars/pseuds/subwaycars
Summary: Keith isn’t particularly surprised when he gets traded- he’s got a reputation for being standoffish off the ice, and reckless on it. It’s getting traded to Shiro’s team that’s the surprise. Shiro, his best friend in junior, who he hasn’t talked to in at least three years.Keith knows a second chance when he sees it.All he’s got to do now is win over his new team, mend his relationship with Shiro, and prove to everyone he does actually belong in the NHL. No sweat, right?
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 156
Collections: Sheith Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So last Christmas I was bored and there was no hockey to watch so instead I marathoned all of Voltron. And then this monster was born. A whole year later, here we are.
> 
> I couldn't have done it without R, who's listened to me whine about this for months and helped with betaing. Also a huge thanks to my hockey gc for their support.
> 
> And the biggest thank you of all to [Ludicrous](https://twitter.com/engraved10), who made literally the MOST incredible art for this and also dealt with me and my inability to respond to anything in a timely matter. I could not have asked for a more talented, more patient artist and I'm so incredibly grateful. Literally cried the first time they sent me sketches and I've not stopped being just absolutely flabbergasted since. 💛
> 
> (title comes from the midnight's america 2.)

“What is he doing here?” Number 28 says with enough scorn Keith actually has to double check that he’s referring to Keith. It’s a level of hostility Keith might have done something to deserve, though he’s cannot for the life of him figure out what, and, frankly, he’s entirely too tired to deal with it. 

Number 28 looks as tired as Keith feels. He doesn’t have his helmet on yet and his hair is an absolute riot, the bags under his eyes almost impressive, but Keith isn’t feeling particularly sympathetic. Keith doubts he has the excuse of a one am cross country flight to explain the way he looks half-asleep in his skates.

There’s a part of Keith that thinks maybe he should be grateful the Blades waited until they were on the Western Canada road trip to pull the trigger. Better just a cross-country flight, than a cross-continent one, probably. He’s having a hard time mustering up any sort of gratitude right now though.

A new teammate who already hates him definitely isn’t helping.

Keith squints a little. 

Actually, 28 looks kind of familiar, and not even in that way where Keith’s been in this league for over a year now and everyone looks a little familiar, because Keith’s almost positive he’s a rookie. There’s just something in the way he’s practically buzzing out of his skin for a nine am practice, even when he looks half asleep, that screams rookie. 

Maybe Kolivan was right. 

Keith probably should have paid more attention to the rest of the league. 

Keith probably should have at least looked up the damn roster on his flight.

“Did- _buddy_ , did you seriously not hear?” someone says from behind him. Keith has no control over the way he’s eyes go wide as 13 skates up and plants himself next to 28, because seriously, he’s _huge._ He has to be a dman- has to be a _rookie_ , because there’s no way Keith would have missed him, even if he was out both games against the Lions last year. It’s not like he didn’t _watch_ them. 

“Hear what?” 28 says, and then his eyes triple in size and he whips his head around so fast it makes Keith’s neck ache. “Wait, where’s Ulaz?”

“Lance, really?” Allura says, as she joins them. Keith gives her the slightest of nods, because she, at least, he recognizes. She rolls her eyes at Keith in response. She somehow makes it look almost delicate, despite the fact that her goalie gear easily doubles her size. Her voice is warm when she says, “Welcome to the team, Kogane.”

Lance, apparently, squawks.

“Wait, did he get _traded_ here? Hunk, buddy, tell me I don’t have to actually _play_ with him?”

And okay, wow, Keith almost wants to be offended, almost cares enough to be. 

Hunk says, very dry, “Did the practice jersey not give it away?”

Allura just says, “Lance, _honestly_ ,” in a tone so familiar in its longsuffering that Keith viscerally regrets getting on the plane. It’s not too late to defect to Europe, he’s pretty sure. The KHL would definitely take him, but he wouldn’t rule the SHL out either. He wonders if he skates backwards slowly enough, maybe they won’t realize he’s left.

“Don’t worry, you get used to him eventually,” someone says from his left, and he’s so surprised by their gentle hip check, it almost knocks him off his skates. Matt’s little sister beams up at him, hair shorter than the last time Keith saw her, but unmistakably a Holt and Keith- Keith had forgotten the Lions drafted her like an _idiot_. 

He really should have looked at the fucking roster. 

“Hey, Katie,” he says, like he isn’t feeling surprised or guilty or so fucking out of his depth right now. 

Katie smiles again like she can tell anyway. She elbows him right where the padding doesn’t quite cover, sharp and vicious, and it reminds him so vividly of Matt that it almost feels like his first year with the Galaxies again, Shiro across the ice talking to the coaches like the All-Canadian hockey savant golden boy that he was, Matt bouncing between annoying Adam and annoying Keith until Shiro came to rescue them both.

“Good to see ya,” Katie tosses over her shoulder as she goes and Keith shakes his head, lets out the breath he hadn’t quite realized was caught in his chest. 

He watches her skate over to Hunk, jostling Lance out of the way, familiar and easy. Lance squawks again, flails his whole body in a way that makes Keith exhausted just watching.

“Hey, no fair, that’s my partner, you can’t have him,” he says and then him and Katie are engaged in a full-contact slapfight, Hunk and Allura watching on, amused and fond. Keith tunes it out as best he can, closes his eyes for just a moment to center himself. He forces his shoulders down, breathes and breathes until it’s easy, until the overwhelming desire to run eases again. He focuses on the sounds, the smells, of the rink, the strange not quite chill of the air, all the things that are familiar, are safe and known and _home_ in a way nowhere else has ever quite managed. He breathes and breathes and braces himself, holds his ground.

Across the ice, Shiro finally, _finally_ , turns around, and the ice beneath Keith’s feet stays firm, doesn’t shake. 

He finds Keith easily in the jumble of players, doesn’t seem surprised at all to find Keith already looking back. He quirks half a smile, small and sweet and hesitant, maybe a little sad but sad _for_ Keith. It’s nothing like Shiro’s ever looked at him, and that’s Keith’s fault, he knows that. It’s still somehow familiar despite.

The coaches scatter behind Shiro, and Keith can feel the shift around him, as everyone straightens up from their lazy sprawls across the boards. Next to him, Katie and Lance quiet down. Still, Keith can’t look away from Shiro, watches him skate over, a stride so familiar and known and dear, Keith could probably pick it out from a mile away, in a crowd of thousands. Shiro has always skated, played hockey, _existed_ , like no one else Keith has ever known. It could be four years ago as easy as it is now, Shiro warm and sure and just the same.

Except for how he’s not. 

Up close, the scar is a faded pink, the vicious line of it softened by time. He’s seen it in pictures but it’s different somehow, now, with Shiro close enough to touch. It’s crazy to him, how the last time Keith saw Shiro in person, it wasn’t there, like a physical reminder of how much time has passed, how much they’ve probably both changed. Keith’s fingers twitch with how badly he wants to reach out and trace the edges of it. He grips his stick tighter.

Shiro gives him that same smile, and something distant in Keith aches.

“Believe it or not, it used to look worse,” he says quietly, with a shrug. 

Keith believes it. He’s replayed the hit so many times at this point, enough times to make himself sick, and he’s still doesn't know how in that entire mess Shiro managed to take a skate to his fucking face, so close to his eyes that even now Keith feels the faint ache of panic lodged in his throat when he thinks about it. He knows every inch of Shiro’s face, dripping with blood, twisted in so much fucking pain. Sometimes when he closes his eyes he can still see the red splashed across the ice. Maybe he didn’t see it with his eyes, but he knows exactly how much worse it was. He knows how much worse it could have been.

Keith traces the line of it over and over again, lets it calm the snarling wild thing that’s been trapped in his chest for years. He’s being too quiet, he knows, and Shiro’s smile quirks into something self-deprecating. 

He looks just like the eighteen-year-old boy Keith used to know in that moment, confident and sure and so unexpectedly shy. And it’s stupid. It’s stupid because Shiro, even back when he was eighteen and not quite grown into his body, has always been unfairly handsome, the best looking thing Keith has ever seen on and off the ice. The scar hasn’t changed that. 

It’s not something he’s ever known how to put into words though, and he can’t imagine they’d even really be all that welcome now. Time and distance have made them as close to strangers as they are friends. It’s obvious in the way Shiro’s standing just a step out of reach, his body held in that way he always did when he wasn’t quite sure of his welcome. 

It’s that hesitation, the way it stings, even if Keith knows he’s to blame, that finally lets him find his voice.

“It’s not so bad,” he settles on, shrugs like he feels anything close to casual. It’s not enough or really close to anything Keith wants to say, but something in Shiro loosens anyway, warms just a little bit more.

He reaches out, put his hand, warm and heavy, on Keith’s shoulder for just a moment.

“It’s good to have you here, Keith,” Shiro says. 

“It’s good to be here,” he says, let’s himself be centered as the whistle goes to start practice.

He doesn’t mean it quite yet, but, as he watches Shiro skate away, he thinks he could.

…… 

The thing is, Keith probably should have seen the trade coming.

They’re down 3-2 to the Devils with four minutes left in the third when Thace goes down. It’s a fucking dirty hit, late and high and from behind, _vicious_ , and Keith’s already dropping his gloves before the whistle even goes.

He’s not sure why the penalties shake out the way they do. They get matching fighting majors, but 43 somehow manages to only get a misconduct for the hit, not a matching minor and then instead of a power play, it’s just 5-on-5 and they don’t manage to tie it up, even after they pull their goalie. They lose.

Thace is out for weeks probably and they lose and Keith spends the last four minutes of the game watching from the penalty box.

It’s not Keith’s fault. He can’t control the absolutely bullshit officiating and anyway, this is hockey. He’s gotten better at picking his fights since junior, but that’s just what you're supposed to do in hockey. Stand up for your teammates. Drop your gloves. 

Keith didn’t do anything wrong.

He still gets chewed out by the coach for it. For “a selfish play that all but guaranteed their loss.” For a “lack of discipline and control over his emotions.” For “not thinking of the team,” like Keith fought for fun. Like he didn’t do it for Thace. Like he wouldn’t do it for anyone else in the room. Like he wouldn’t expect any of them to do it for him.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d won, or at least managed to make it to overtime. Maybe they wouldn’t have blamed him for it. 

He doesn’t get traded then, but that’s where it starts.

It’s two weeks later instead, right after their loss to Garrison, even though he had the primary assist on the only two goals their team managed to score. 

It’s two weeks later, in the middle of the Western Canadian swing, when Keith only has one suitcase with him, full of mostly the same Blades-branded merch every player gets (and it’s not like that even fucking matters, because Keith barely has anything to call his own anyway, has enough money even with just his ELC to buy whatever the fuck he even needs, but it’s cold, ruthless in a way that still stings). 

It’s two weeks later, after Keith’s sweat and bled and kept his fists to himself, played the best goddamn hockey of his admittedly young career. 

It’s two weeks later when he’s just starting to feel safe. 

It’s two weeks later, because this is hockey and no one is ever safe.

He doesn’t see it coming, but he knows he should of. It’s easy in hindsight, to trace it back to that night, and the way Kolivan had sat next to him after Coach had finally stopped yelling. The way he had sighed, said “the game is more important than any one individual.” 

Because maybe Keith didn’t get traded right then and there, but it’s easy to see now that that was the moment he signed his own death warrant.

…… 

The trade was one for one, so Keith isn’t surprised when they slot him in as the second line center, between Breezer and Ryner. And it should be easy. Keith’s been playing hockey for fifteen years, has been on ice since before he could really even walk. The Lions might play a totally different system than the Blades, but it’s not new, not really, even if Keith can still only count the number of actual teams he’s played for on one hand. 

There’s only so many structures within hockey, and Keith knows them all inside and out, even if he’s never played half of them. 

So it shouldn’t be hard, and maybe it’s just that Keith is exhausted and angry, with the desperate edge of something to prove, but nothing clicks. 

Solo drills are fine. Keith can shoot a puck in his sleep, can deke and dangle around defensemen with his eyes closed. Solo drills are easy, because he doesn’t need to _think._ He knows his body, knows how to receive a pass cleanly, the solid thunk as it lands square on his tape, knows how to curl in on himself, toe drag, shoot. He spent summers as a kid doing just this, over and over until it was second nature, alone in echoing rinks while everyone else played soccer or took trips to the beach. Keith can run solo drills drunk or blindfolded or handcuffed to someone else and they still wouldn’t be _hard_ , would feel just like breathing.

The solo drills go fine, because Keith wasn’t traded for being bad at hockey. He was traded for being bad at _teamwork_. It’s the line drills that fuck him up. 

When Keith was a kid, he always thought chemistry was just another dumb hockey cliche the talking heads liked to spout, like grit and culture and fucking intangibles. Keith grew up in rinks, grew up watching his mom’s games on the television when she was away, watching from the stands when she was home. Keith grew up on _hockey_ , but he also grew up in the desert. Hockey teams weren’t a thing when he was a kid, not really. He didn’t get it then, the way individual skill wasn’t ever going to be enough. 

He knows better now. 

Chemistry is a thing and they’ve got none.

The passes are off, Keith too fast for them. It’s always in his skates or just behind him, his own always just a step too far for Breezer or Ryner to reach. In twenty minutes of the same line rush drills they hardly manage to even get a shot off, never mind one past Allura. It makes Keith want to scream, the frustration heavy in the back of his throat. 

It’s not really any of their faults. Chemistry isn’t something that just magically springs into being most of the time, especially not for Keith (except for that first year of juniors, when they had put Keith on Shiro’s line and it had just _clicked_ , like something inside him snapping into focus, into place). It doesn’t matter if no one’s to blame though. Keith needs to be better than this. He _is_ better than this. 

This is hockey- he knows how it works, even if this is his first time getting traded. There’ll be a target painted on his back until he proves that the Blades made a mistake giving him up. 

And that won’t happen if Keith can’t make this fucking work.

It’s a little easier when the coach (Coran, he reminds himself, Coran who is _his_ coach now) gives up and gives in, switches up the lines a little. Katie gets moved up off the fourth line and put on his left wing instead, because even though she’s small, for hockey, but also in general, she’s fast. She’s fast and she’s smart and she plays just enough like Matt that Keith can anticipate it just a bit better.

It means they get at least half their shots on net, even if Allura stops all but three. It’s something.

It’s something, but it’s still not great, and Keith has never been so grateful for a drill change as he is when they finally blow the whistle. This is the NHL; you don’t survive by being good. You have to be the best.

Ryner looks as sympathetic as she does frustrated when they head back to the benches. Katie shoulder bumps him companionably, and when he looks at her, her smile is all determination. She’s got something to prove too, he knows. 

So it’s not great, but maybe it can be.

They split up into special teams eventually, and it’s the first time Keith’s really been on the ice with Shiro all morning. Keith’s obviously not kept up with the Lions’ season too well, but he’s heard enough rumblings about a stagnant PP and it’s reassuring that if things aren’t clicking here either, it’s at least not on him. Everyone looks a little out of sorts as they settle in, like maybe Keith isn’t the only one new to this unit. Nyma’s got the point, with Rolo in the slot and Breezeron the left wall. Shiro gets the netfront spot and Keith gets the right wall. 

At first it’s simple, just a quick keep away from the PK unit, cycling the puck, finding lanes for passes, nothing really directed at the net. They settle into a rhythm, a constant pass pass pass, the PK unit doing their best to take away shooting lanes, if not quite breaking up passes yet. There’s no signal to start shooting, nothing a coach or any player says. One moment, Rolo is dangling around Ryner, and the next, Nyma is firing a slapshot right on the net. 

Everything intensifies after that. Lance and Katie get more disruptive, getting their sticks in the way of passes. Hunk blocks a handful of shots long before they can even reach Allura in net. Ryner makes a diving play at the blue line to knock the puck out and then does it again a minute later, until they get smarter with their passes. The PK unit fights hard and it’s brutal, but it’s also just about the easiest team drill they’ve had so far. Keith lets himself settle into the rhythm of it, skates the puck up and down the half wall, sends passes across the slot to set Breezer up for a shot, battles low and hard against Lance for a loose puck again and again.

And of course, of fucking course, the first time Keith directs a slap pass across the ice to Shiro, right through Hunk’s legs, Shiro’s already got his stick on the ice waiting for it. He just barely has to redirect it in, too far out of Allura’s reach. 

And it’s not just the one time. Over and over, Shiro and him click like no time has passed, like fucking magic, tape to tape and connected, because of course chemistry isn’t a cliche. He’s always had it with Shiro, apparently still fucking does, no effort at all. It’s beautiful fucking hockey, even if it’s only practice, and Keith lets himself get lost in it. Skate. Pass. Shoot. Pass. Pass. Toe drag. Shoot. Shiro sends him a pass, perfect, right on his stick, and Keith one-times it as easy as breathing,

It goes hard and wide, just to the right of the net, hits the glass with a sudden crack before little shards are falling everywhere, glittering like stars on the ice. 

He’s breathless when he meets Shiro’s eyes and for a moment they just stare, the whole rink gone shocked and still. Then Shiro doubles over laughing, helpless, and something in Keith eases, if only for the moment. When Shiro looks back at him, eyes bright, as Coran calls a break to get the glass fixed, Keith lets himself grin.

…… 

“What’s your deal with Kogane, anyway?” Hunk says, from behind him. He's trying to be quiet, probably doesn’t even know Keith is there. Keith freezes, as equally curious as he is unsure if he wants to know the answer. 

“I just really hate that guy,” Lance mutters. 

“Yes, but _why_?”

“I don’t know man, he was a jerk are entire rookie year of juniors,” Lance says, which makes no sense. Keith couldn’t even tell you what team Lance played for in juniors. “We were totally rivals, even if he likes to pretend he’s too good for all of us.”

“Rivals? But you play defense,” Hunk says, and Keith turns just in time to see the way Hunk’s face twists up. He looks as confused and skeptical as Keith feels, which is reassuring, at least. Keith feels a little like he’s been dropped into an alternate reality without warning.

Lance shrugs, scuffs his skates on the ice a little.

“I was a right wing my rookie year before they switched me to defense,” he says, before abruptly turning furious again. “That’s not the point, man! The point is he’s a total jerk!” 

And okay, Keith is officially very lost and a lot annoyed. He can’t _not_ say something.

“Sorry, who are you exactly?” 

Both Hunk and Lance’s eyes widen when they glance back and see him, but where Hunk looks a mix of horrified and apologetic, Lance just looks outraged.

“Are you- are you being serious right now?” he says. “No, you have to be joking. This is a joke.”

Keith just stares.

“We- we played against each other for three years in junior, man!” His eyes get wider somehow, pleading almost, like that will somehow make Keith remember him. “We spent two weeks doing top prospect draft stuff together in Anaheim! We were drafted the same year! I ate a worm on a dare!”

And that, at least, sounds vaguely familiar. 

“Huh,” Keith says, because if he’s honest, what he remembers most about the entire three years of junior’s was Shiro Shiro Shiro and then missing Shiro. That second year, and the draft especially, are mostly a blur. He doesn’t really remember anyone, except maybe Griffin, and that’s only because Griffin went first overall and also was a total dick. Lance really shouldn’t take it personally.

“Huh,” Lance repeats, and then he makes a sound, strangled and not quite human. He almost looks like he’s going to cry. Hunk, next to him, looks very sorry for Lance and for Keith but mostly for himself and Keith doesn’t blame him one bit.

Lance collapses into the boards, overdramatic. Despite what Katie says, Keith does not think he will get used to this.

“I went 7th overall,” Lance says, almost a moan. “Two spots after you!”

Oh. 

_Oh._

The thing is, Keith could have gone first- maybe should have- but he always knew he was going to fall. He knew he was going to fall but he also knew he wasn’t going to fall that far. Keith’s good at hockey. He doesn’t need to be modest about it. He’s good enough that even rumours of attitude problems weren’t going to keep him out of the top five. 

The Lions were picking seventh.

It had felt wrong to spend that last month of the season watching the Lions fall apart more and more without Shiro. It had felt wrong to wish for them to lose just a bit more. He knew Shiro was somewhere, his grandfather’s house in BC or wherever the Lions had him doing PT, watching the same thing and probably feeling guilty he wasn’t there, their first overall pick and promised saviour, alone and hurt and unable to help, blaming himself for it. It had felt wrong to want them to drop just a little bit farther into the bottom of the standings.

Honestly, he doesn’t remember much about the draft itself. He hadn’t even been in the room when the seventh pick had been announced- had been pathetically grateful for it, beneath the tidal wave of jealousy that made him want to curl in on himself or throw up whenever he thought too hard about getting drafted. He couldn’t have told you who the Lions had picked. 

He could tell you that Griffin went first, because he remembers his smile, sharp and triumphant, when they called his name, looking over at Keith like he was trying to goad him into another fight. He remembers Matt’s excitement, sent to the wrong group chat, at Katie being drafted (fifth round, 187th overall, to the Lions, to Shiro, and Keith had turned off his phone before he could read any of the replies). He remembers his mom’s excitement at him getting drafted to her team, remembers the way someone nearby had coughed around the word nepotism like Keith couldn’t skate circles around them, and the way his mom had looked furious and pained and beneath it all, tired. He remembers the lights, the stifling press of bodies, the way he was constantly shuffled from one spot to another to another, left to stand about and fake smiles as best he could.

Mostly he remembers how he was hardly talking to Shiro anymore at that point and yet all he could think was how disappointed Shiro probably was that he only went fifth. How he hadn’t seen Shiro in person in almost a year and still his first thought when they called his name was Shiro- Shiro, who always believed in him, the stupid, angry kid from the desert that always threw the first punch- and how Keith had let him down.

It makes something small and angry and mean lodge in his throat, something he thought he’d grown out of. 

“And you’re just a rookie _now_?” he says, even though it’s unfair, even though Keith is barely two months removed from being a rookie himself, even though the conventional wisdom is defensemen take longer to make it to the show. 

Even though Shiro would look at him disappointed if he could hear. 

Keith is disappointed in himself.

Lance splutters, straightens.

“At least my team didn’t trade me,” he says, arms crossed, and chin tilted up defiantly. Keith doesn’t stumble back, but it feels like a near thing. He can’t keep his shoulders from curling forward though, keep his face from going tellingly blank.

“ _Lance_ ,” Hunk says, scandalized, but Keith just shrugs off his apologetic look. It’s not like it isn’t true. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.

“Touché,” he says and pushes off the wall. He’s lingered too long anyway. They finished sweeping up the broken glass a couple minutes ago. There’s drills to be run.

…… 

By the time practice is finally over and Keith is showered and ready to head out, his body is a mess of the usual hockey aches and the unique pains of hours spent trying to sleep curled up in an airplane seat. All he wants is to finally check into his hotel and take a nap on a proper bed, maybe find something to eat, so of course that’s exactly when PR swoops in. Because the media. Of course. He got traded. Of course they want to talk about it.

Keith’s a solid six-feet, two hundred pounds of hockey player, but he still feels strangely delicate, as they usher him through the halls to wherever they’ve got the reporters camping out. He’s maybe small for a hockey player, but he’s not _small_ , and yet he feels small, fragile, a pale, freshly showered mess in a new Lions’ shirt that’s itchy and uncomfortable in that way new clothing always is. It’s stretched too tight over his shoulders, and Keith wants nothing more than to strip it off, maybe replace it with the soft, worn cotton of his old Galaxies sweatshirt. Keith wants nothing more than to not even be here in the first place. 

But wanting is not a course of action and here is where he is, lurking in the doorway of whatever room they’ve put the step and repeat up, the media and Shiro on the other side.

It makes sense that they’re interviewing Shiro too. He’s the captain for one. He used to play with Keith for another. They’re friends, or were in juniors at least. Just one of those reasons would be enough of an angle for a story. None of this should surprise him. Of course they want to talk to Keith, of course they want to talk to Shiro. Keith blames how tired he is on the way he keeps being a little surprised anyway.

Keith can’t see him, but he can hear him well enough, the familiar cadence of Shiro’s media voice filtering through. 

He’s always been stupidly good at this part. He’s always been stupidly good at every part really. The on ice stuff is obvious- insane skating, crazy shot, beautiful passing, hockey IQ off the charts- but the off-ice leadership stuff too. He’s always been good at talking with the coaches, great at the pep talks, always knew when to press or when to give space, not just with Keith but with everyone on the Galaxies. But the media stuff, especially, Shiro has always been good at. It probably comes with the golden canadian boy territory, but Keith’s seen other hockey players talk. Where they are robots, mechanical and rote, Shiro’s always been earnest and sincere. And he’s smart. He gives _good_ answers, the sorts you can write articles about. Even back in junior’s he always seemed to know exactly what to say.

It’s just another thing that hasn’t changed.

“So yeah, he brings a lot to the team,” Shiro is saying, and Keith hadn’t heard the question but it’s obvious they’re talking about him. Of course they are, because it’s the whole point to this stupid thing, but it sends something warm and ugly surging through Keith anyway.

A reporter says something else that Keith can’t quite hear, but there’s a murmur of amusement rippling through the room, Shiro’s laugh, sheepish, above it all. Keith can picture it, the way Shiro probably has his hand at the back of his neck, his head ducked a little. Keith can practically see the media melt.

“Yeah, definitely,” Shiro says. “That last year in junior with him was definitely one of the best years I’ve had playing hockey, so on a personal level, I’m really excited to have Keith here.”

It’s like taking a puck to the chest. 

It’s the right answer, probably, for whatever question they asked, for whatever narrative the media is trying to spin, but Keith can’t help falling into it anyway, the idea that maybe Shiro really is excited to play with him again. It’s easy to believe him when he says it. 

And he is excited too, deep down, beneath all the anger and disappointment and hurt. Beneath the exhaustion. He’s always wanted to play with Shiro again.

He tunes out the way they murmur thanks and goodbyes, pleasantries that Shiro responds to easily, warm and sure.

He shuffles out from where he’s been hiding as Shiro is led away in the opposite direction. Shiro doesn’t look back, and Keith’s not sure if he’s grateful for that or not.

The room is bigger than Keith expected, and he blinks into the eyes of too many people, recorders already trained on him. The lights are just a little too bright and the room feels stuffy, claustrophobic. Keith’s honestly never seen so many reporters in the same room all at once. It’s the luxury of playing in a smaller market, out in the desert where no one really cares what the hockey team is doing, everyone already used to him being a worthless interview.He’s never had to do press for a bigger game, and under the weight of a dozen stares, he’s grateful for that.

Inanely, he remembers that his hair is a mess. He pushes a hand through it, wishes he’d thought to tie it back.

There’s a stretch of silence as Keith stares awkwardly into the mass of reporters with their microphones and cameras and tiny recorders. They blink back at them, waiting, but Keith doesn’t know how to start. He’s never been good at this, the media and words in general, and Shiro is too tough an act to follow. He feels a little like a caged animal in a zoo or a circus act, or maybe just a cat in a cat carrier, sitting in a vets office. He stares, wide-eyed and waiting.

Someone finally takes pity on him.

“First off, welcome, Keith,” they say, and Keith can’t figure out who. He blinks the lights out of his eyes. “It probably came as a surprise, but it’s good to have you.”

There’s an awkward murmur of laughter after, but the welcome itself, sounds almost genuine.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, too tight. There’s another beat of silence, and Keith realizes that maybe that was a question, somehow. He tries to smile, even though it never looks right when he tries, and tries to think of a way to say no, he isn’t actually surprised, that he always half-expects to never be good enough, used to not being wanted, isn’t surprised he managed to fuck it up. That the real surprise is that this is only the first time he’s been traded. Without it, you know, sounding like _that_

“And uh, yeah, it was a surprise, I guess,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, “I mean, it’s hockey, you can always get traded, but you don’t ever really expect it to be you, obviously.”

There’s another beat of staring, waiting expectantly, and Keith wishes he’s ever been able to pull off awkward in the way Shiro can, make it charming.

“But I’m here, and ready to work hard, and I’m, uh, grateful for this opportunity with the Lions, obviously,” he tacks on finally, thinks he probably said obviously and uh too many times.

“You and Shiro were on the same team in juniors, the Garrison Galaxies of the Western Hockey League, and you used to play with Katie’s older brother, Matt Holt too. Did you know Katie before now, and do you think it's helped your transition to a new team?”

“Uh yeah, I’d met Katie a few times back in juniors so it was nice having a few familiar faces in the rink already. It definitely helps.” 

“And what’s it like playing with Shiro again?”

“We obviously had a lot of chemistry back in juniors- lots of good times- so it’s great.”

“What do you think about the rest of the team so far?” 

Keith blinks for a second, unsure how to answer. It’s a weird question.

“Everyone’s been, uh, really welcoming,” he says, and he’s never been good at lying but he thinks he mostly succeeds. “The Lions have a good group of young players, obviously, and I grew up watching a lot of the older vets on the team, so as a younger guy coming in, there’s a really good balance and it’s a really exciting team.” he says and it’s not untrue, but it’s not super true either. He mostly remembers watching Alfor at his heyday, the brutal playoff goal his mom scored on him when Keith was eight. 

“We’re definitely built to be competitive for a long time,” he finishes lamely.

Already it feels like a lifetime since Keith started answering questions but it’s probably been no more than four minutes. It feels like a blur, a haze, thinks he probably sounds dead, not excited enough, touches his hair too often.

“What would you say you bring to the team?” someone else asks and finally it feels like a question Keith can answer. It’s not about Shiro, about getting traded, about Lance or anyone else on the new team or feeling welcome. It’s about hockey and Keith has always been able to talk about hockey, at least. He relaxes just a fraction and answers.

“You must be exhausted,” someone else says after, and it’s another one of those not quite questions, but it’s a genuine moment, when Keith laughs, agrees.

“I had a hard time sleeping on the plane this morning,” he admits, and the media looks sympathetic instead of impatient for just a moment and Keith reminds himself to breathe.

The questions roll on.

…… 

Shiro’s waiting for him back in the locker room when Keith stumbles in, finally free of the media. It takes a second for him to even notice he’s there, and then, as always, it’s like he’s the only thing he can see, even half-asleep and braindead. He wants to be surprised about this like everything else so far, but he doesn’t quite manage it this time- resigned. Of course Shiro is here. Of course he waited for him. Of course he wants to talk. 

Shiro looks hopeful and it feels unfair, cruel, that Keith immediately starts looking for an escape route, an excuse to get himself out of whatever conversation Shiro wants to have before it can even start. Keith smiles at him faintly, if only to soften the guilt, as he heads for his bag he abandoned in his locker.

He tries to stall, unzips his bag, and rummages through all its contents like he’s looking for something in it. He zips it back up, ties back his hair, fiddles with the straps. Shiro waits him out, waits until Keith finally gives up and slings it over his back, and turns to face him before he speaks.

“Did you want to get lunch?” he asks, like it’s simple.

Keith hesitates for a moment too long. He can see the way Shiro’s shoulders settle, resigned. Keith wants to prove him wrong, but not as much as he wants to run away.

“Mostly, I just want to take a nap,” he says, tries to soften the rejection. “Early flight, you know.”

It’s not a lie, not exactly, but it’s also not really the truth. Shiro’s watching him carefully, like he knows it, and Keith sighs.

“But another time?” he adds after a beat, unsure, because even if he kinda wants to avoid Shiro forever he knows he can't. He can’t really deny Shiro anything, in the end.

“Yeah, another time,” Shiro says softly. They’re silent for a moment, just watching each other, and it feels different than it did out on the ice. Without the pads, the uniform, Keith just feels exposed, small. He shuffles a little, tries to find a way to escape without it looking like that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Do you need a ride?” Shiro says finally, and Keith startles, goes wide-eyed before he can stop himself.

“Uh, no. I’m okay. Uh someone on the staff is giving me one,” he lies, badly. He was just planning on calling an uber when he gets out, but Shiro doesn’t need to know that. He thinks Shiro can tell anyway, but he doesn’t call him on it at least. Keith hurries to grab his things, heads for the door. Shiro is still sitting in his stall, phone between his hands. He’s not watching Keith, and the guilt hits him all over again.

“Thanks, though,” he says, and Shiro’s head shoots up. Keith tries for a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Shiro.”

Shiro smiles.

“See you, Keith.”

…… 

Turns out, Keith didn’t need to call an uber afterall. There’s someone lurking outside the door of the locker room who’s been assigned to drive him back to his hotel, which is nice. The ride is quick and quiet, which is nicer. Keith lets his head rest against the cool window, headphones in, and is grateful for the small amount of peace.

It lasts as long as it takes for Keith to shoulder open the door to his hotel room and drop his bag just inside. 

It’s not like the fact that he got traded suddenly hits him, blindsides him. But there’s something about standing in an empty hotel room, tastefully decorated and so radically different than the tiny apartment he had in the desert, walls bare but too small to be anything but cluttered and most importantly _his_ , that really drives it home. This suite, with its grey walls and pastel landscapes, is his new normal. 

It feels like the world has shifted beneath his feet again, without him able to control it. He slumps back against the door, closes his eyes and breathes as deep as he can.

It’s his phone that pulls him out of it, vibration against wood where he shoved it into his back pocket. He digs his palms into his eyes for just a moment before he carefully fishes it out. 

It’s a text for Shiro and Keith is too tired to be surprised now. He stares at it for a moment, before he manages to process any of it.

_hey, this is shiro. not sure if anyone told you, but allura’s going to drive you in tomorrow- she’ll pick you up at 9:30 for morning skate_

That does manage to surprise him. He figured management would send another car, maybe, but it makes sense that’d they’d arrange for someone on the team to pick him up instead. He wants to ask why it’s Allura who’s picking him up. Why not Shiro? He wants to ask who chose that, if it was Shiro and why. Is it because of Keith? Does he not want to or does he think Keith doesn’t want him to and does Keith even want him to?

Because Shiro has always been _so_ much, sometimes maybe even a little too much. It’s not something Keith minded when he was a desperate sixteen-year-old, the weight of Shiro’s attention, the way he focused so thoroughly, but now, a few years removed and out of practice, it’s overwhelming.

Maybe Shiro knows that. Maybe things haven’t changed so much. Shiro has always known him, sometimes better than Keith did. Maybe it’s that. Maybe he knows Keith needs space. Or maybe that’s just fucking wishful thinking, the sort that gets you blindsided by a trade. 

Keith shakes his head, feels stupid for doing it even though there’s no one around to see. Feels stupid for still somehow managing to be this dumb about Shiro. He swipes quickly on his phone to open his messages to respond.

Shiro’s text has joined a neat little row of uninterrupted messages, barely even long enough to fill up more than a couple screens. He doesn’t even need to scroll up to see the text Shiro sent him last night,

_hey keith, this is shiro uh not sure if you have my number? I just wanted to say welcome to the team- i’m excited to play with you again! and i guess text me if you need anything? see you tomorrow!_

It had been Shiro being a good captain, welcoming a new teammate, and nothing more. He would have sent it to anyone, Keith knows. It wasn’t special.

He scrolls up before he can stop himself, back to the beginning,

_hey keith, this is shiro. got a new number-- text me anytime, okay? miss you._

And then, seconds later:

_oh and killer goal against the hawks- the nhl is not going to know what hit them next year_

Because of course Shiro had known Keith was going to make it to the show the next year. Of course he’d still believed in Keith, even though Keith had barely talked to him since Shiro’d been drafted, hadn’t seen him in person in literal years. Even then, Shiro hadn’t given up on him. 

Keith’s not sure he deserved that faith. 

Back then, Shiro had felt like lifetimes or universes away and Keith didn’t text him back. He didn’t even save Shiro’s number. It had seemed easier, like maybe if he let it go, gave up, he could stop Shiro from meaning so much. Like hockey wasn’t a small world, in the end. Like Keith could avoid him forever, somehow.

It doesn’t matter that he never saved it. He has it memorized at this point, too many sleepless nights staring at the text, wondering if maybe he should respond after all. Because of course. It was dumb to think he could ever block out Shiro, forget him somehow, like Shiro hadn’t completely altered the course of his life in a single year without even really trying. 

He stares at it for too long, traces through the familiar numbers. He thumbs his screen slowly, carefully, until it’s there, saved at last in his phone, under Shiro, permanent and inescapable. Keith stares at it.

Keith-- Keith can’t do this.

_Thanks_ , he sends back finally, before he can waste anymore time second guessing himself, and then he goes to find himself food. 

…… 

Later, long after Keith should be asleep, after he’s eaten and called his mom, and piled up all his old Blades stuff in a corner of his room and stared at the ceiling in the dark for too long, he gives in and pulls open the NHL app on his phone.

He still hasn’t changed his home screen from the Blades page. It glares up at him, too bright in the dark. He scrolls down before he can stop himself, knows better even as he pulls up the latest media scrums. 

“It was a hard choice for sure, but it’s my job to make those decisions,” the Blades’ GMsays. “Keith is a great player and we wish him all the best, but we felt Ulaz was the right fit for our team moving forward.”

“Could you elaborate on that?”

“He plays the Blades’ brand of hockey,- heavy, defense-first. He’s a real team player,” he says, and oh. It’s not the first time anyone’s insinuated Keith’s a selfish player, or straight up called him just that online, but he doesn't get it. It still stings.

“Kogane was a top five draft pick in his second professional season and he’s only twenty years old. Were there any concerns about trading him so early in his career?”

“Look, I’ll be honest, there’s a difference between patience and hope. We have an older core, our window is closing. Keith is a great player, he puts up points in a way that’s hard to replace, but he’s still young, there’s still immaturities in his game, and we don’t have the luxury of time to wait and see if it matures. His game just isn’t where we needed it to be by now. Sometimes you have to take the risk and move on.”

And Keith, Keith isn’t surprised. It’s not even particularly untrue, even if it’s just a little savage. It doesn’t matter, really. It doesn’t.

Keith shuts his phone off. He goes to sleep.

……

Sure as anything, Allura is outside on the hotel at nine-thirty to pick him up **.**

“Good morning, Keith,” she says when Keith climbs in, and in the cold light of morning, he’s grateful it’s her. He’s not sure he could have dealt with Shiro this early, not when he’s so tired. He feels tense, untethered, and Shiro knows him too well to have not seen it, to have not pried, however gently.

If Allura can tell, she ignores it.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles back, smile turning genuine when Allura hands him a cup of coffee. “Thanks.”

Allura’s smile is knowing.

“My pleasure,” she says, and then smoothly pulls into traffic. Keith settles back into his seat, takes careful sips of coffee. Beyond the quiet hum of the radio and the sounds of traffic, they’re silent. Keith has met Allura before, but that doesn’t mean he knows her. He has no idea what to say, and Allura doesn’t try to make conversation. It’s not as awkward as he’d expect, though.

Keith tilts his head onto the window, doesn’t quite close his eyes. He steals glances at Allura and if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. There’s something about her that Keith envies. She’s calm, a settled sort of quiet Keith has never known. She’s a few years older than him, has been in the show for a few years now, been around it for even longer than Keith. He knows, vaguely, the story of her dad, in that way everyone knows about Alfor and the Lions. He knows enough to know it’s better not to ask. 

There’s just something untouchable about her, polite and cool and distant, but still soft, somehow, not unwelcoming. It’s a careful balance Keith has never managed to achieve, is almost envious of. He sips his coffee, stays quiet, rests.

“I trust you’re settling in fine?” Allura says finally, and Keith startles.

“Uh yeah,” he says, awkward. “I mean, I’m not used to the weather, but yeah.”

Because great idea. Small talk about the weather. He’s an idiot. Keith should not be allowed out in public.

Allura laughs, not unkind.

“You’ll need warmer clothing for sure,” she says, nodding towards his lack of gloves or hat or scarf. She side-eyes his hoodie under his coat, and he wants to defend himself. He’s not dumb enough to walk into the rink with it still on over his suit but he’d been cold. She doesn’t mention it though. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

He thinks she means it, which is nice.

“Thanks,” he says, sincere, and there’s something about Allura that warms, just slightly, as they quiet down again. 

Luckily, the drive to the arena is as short as the drive to the practice rink. It’s less than a twenty minute ride, and Keith sees the VCC before they even get close. He can’t quite keep his breath from catching.

He’s heard stories and seen pictures, but it’s absolutely 100% different seeing it in person. 

“Welcome to the Castle of Lions,” Allura says, smug, and Keith can’t even fault her for it. 

It’s obvious how it’s got that nickname. The plaza itself is massive, stretching out from the arena. It’s mostly uncovered, littered with park benches and shrubbery, tables and gardens, places for people to relax in the summer. There’s a corner already set up with space heaters and a screen, where later they’ll broadcast the game for any fans bold enough to brave the weather outside, and already there are fans milling around, taking selfies, even if the game isn’t for another ten hours.

What really catches Keith’s eye though, is the statues. There are four of them, one on each corner of the plaza’s edge, and they’re massive, as big as buildings, taller than most houses. They’re lions, strangely robotic, all sharp edges and gleaming corners, and they’re beautiful. There’s a fifth one perched on the arena itself, somehow bigger than all the rest, winged and glorious and glittering black in the weak winter sunlight. It’s hanging over the edge of the entrance doors, curled up like a dragon, protecting. Behind it, massive aquamarine glass spires stretch into the sky like turrets, or maybe like a spaceship. The whole building is grey and sleek, grand and imposing, and then they turn the corner and the walls are replaced with floor to ceiling windows, lights glittering inside like stars and Keith’s breath catches all over again.

It’s majestic and insane and completely unlike anything Keith’s ever seen before and pictures do not do it justice at all. 

“It’s incredible,” he says, doesn’t mean to but does, and Allura’s voice is warm and sweet when she laughs.

“It really is,” she says softly. “I remember when I was just a girl and I’d come for my father’s games- I always felt like a princess.”

The Blade’s arena was geometric and concrete, surrounded by desert. It was harsh, imposing, and beautiful in it’s strength. As a kid, the way the sun had caught fire to the sand surrounding it had made it feel like heading into battle, not a hockey game. There had been something brutal and bloody about it, the way footsteps had echoed like drums when the halls were empty. Keith can’t imagine a childhood walking into this. It felt like heading into space or a fairytale, like magic. 

It takes minutes for them to drive through security, parking in a lot tucked away on the backside of the arena. Katie is stumbling out of her car a few feet away, Lance and Hunk in tow, yawning and sleepy in her oversized sweater and glasses. 

She smiles when she sees Keith, bumbles over to him as Allura leads the five of them towards the arena. 

The player’s entrance is a side door hidden in the shade of one of lions. Keith gets caught staring up at it, entranced. There’s something about it that keeps him rooted there, something imposing, like it can see into you soul, measure your worth. Keith doesn’t feel deserving, which is absurd, but also a feeling that just sticks. 

Pidge nudges him in the ribs, jolts him out of it.

“C’mon,” she says, and Keith follows, glances back only once. “Next time, we’ll have to take you through the front entrance,” she says, and grins.

Despite everything, it feels like coming home.

……

It’s Lance who points out the girls up against the glass wearing his jersey during warm-ups. They’re smiling and they blush when Keith looks their way, phones pressed to the glass and trained on him.

“Of course you already have fangirls,” Lance says with a snort. Keith flips them a puck just to spite him, grins when Lance glares at him from across the ice. The way the girls shake and smile and mouth their thanks is an added bonus. He ducks his head to hide the way his smile turns genuine, finds a corner to hide.

He stickhandles absently, watches Hunk and Katie race across the ice, watches Shiro stretch quietly next to Allura. Lance is showboating, to Nyma or the gathered crowd or just for himself, Keith can’t quite tell, but he flips the puck up higher and higher, even though he almost never manages to actually catch it on his stick. Already the stands are filling up, kids faces pressed tight to the glass. It’s loud and familiar and Keith lets himself get lost in it for a few minutes.

It’s a puck, slamming into the glass behind him that knocks him out of it, Katie on the other end of it.

“Jeez, Katie” he says over the pounding of his heart but Katie just grins, unrepentant. “Are you trying to kill me?”

She hipchecks him, not gentle, ignores the question.

“You have to stop calling me that. Literally only my parents do at this point,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “It’s _weird_.” 

Keith rolls his eyes.

“Fine, _Pidge_ ,” he says and laughs when Pidge flings off her glove to shake on it. It helps, a little, to ease some of the tension in his shoulders he hadn’t quite realized until that moment was even there. It’s not much, but maybe enough.

He follows her back towards center ice, where everyone is lining up for shooting drills, and that helps too. The repetition of it is familiar, soothing. He loses himself in it, tries to set aside the nerves like it’s his very first NHL game all over again. 

The crowds filter in and the children bang on the glass and the puck slides across the ice over and over and it’s almost a surprise when warm-ups are over, and the team starts filing off the ice. Shiro nudges his shoulder as they line up, and for a moment it’s like nothing’s changed and Keith forgets to be nervous. 

But then the light hits his scar and Keith remembers just how much has changed. He smiles back, tight, and puts his head down to ignore Shiro’s frown.

Keith knows what a second chance looks like, knows you don’t get third ones, not in life and especially not in the NHL. He can’t fuck this up.

…… 

The game goes honestly as well as Keith probably could have expected. 

One practice that didn’t even go all that well isn’t enough, and maybe it should be, because Keith is better than how he’s playing, but it’s not just him. Everyone seems out of sorts, from the top line to the fourth line, from the defense to Allura in goal. She’s standing on her head now, to even keep them in this thing, but she also let in two goals on six shots in the first which hadn’t helped them. It wouldn’t be so bad if the whole team hadn’t completely lost the ability to score, but they can’t even get a fucking shot through to the net. Every single time there’s a body in the way, a pass a little too hot to handle. It’s honestly a miracle they’re only down by three at the end of the second.

If there’s any bright spot, it’s that the power play is still clicking just like it had in practice, even if they’ve managed to do everything but _score_. It’s not enough to win the game but it’s not nothing when the rest of the game has been an unmitigated shitshow.

He figures that’s why he gets tapped for the second intermission interview. He’s the new guy and he’s on the power play, had almost managed to get them on the board. It makes sense why they’d put him on. They’ll realize soon he’s a terrible choice for these things.

Still, he’s somehow not expecting it, when the guy with the mic says, “Let’s talk about that power play. You obviously didn't score, but it looks like you and Shiro have picked up right where you left off in junior. Let’s talk about that chemistry.”

“Ah, yeah, the chemistry,” Keith says, and chokes on the word, glad his face is already red from the game. “It was, yeah, it was there since practice yesterday. But uh, it’s really just a credit to how good Shiro is as a player, how well he sees the ice and knows me as a player, I guess. Not many people would think to make that pass, you know? But that’s just Shiro. So yeah.”

“What can we hope to see out of you guys in the third?”

“Ah, you know. Just getting pucks in deep, getting them on net, hopefully a few of them go in,” he says and has never been so grateful to stumble his way back to the locker room. 

…… 

“Pidge, Kogane, you're with Shiro,”Coran says, three minutes into the third, and Keith’s been expecting some line juggling since approximately halfway through the second, so he’s not surprised. It’s not what he was expecting though, if he’s honest.

“Sir,” Shiro says, an acknowledgment or a question or who knows what. He meets Keith’s eyes when he looks over.

“The two of you on the powerplay is about the only thing we’ve had going for us in this game, and Pidge is just about the only one on this team who can keep up with you both.”

Shiro quirks an eyebrow at him. Keith shrugs. He doesn’t know this team, this system yet, but he knows Shiro, he knows Shiro’s hockey, and that’s enough. That has always been enough for the two of them. He can do this. _They_ can do this. 

Shiro nods like Keith said any of that out loud, and next to him, Pidge grins.

“Let’s go kick some Shark butt,” she says and then she’s tumbling over the boards after Shiro and Keith follows.

It’s the right move. Keith can feel it the moment his skates hit the ice. There’s always been something about Shiro and him, something that’s always felt a little like magic, and Keith is alive with it. They don’t score on that first shift but they spend the entirety of it out of their own end for once, and Keith can feel himself buzzing when he gets back to the bench. Shiro grins at him, fierce and bright, like he feels it too.

It takes them about seven seconds into their next shift to finally, finally put the puck in the back of the net. It’s not pretty, Pidge making a diving play to keep the puck alive at the blueline, Keith throwing it through a mess of defenders and sticks before Shiro tucks in the rebound right off the goalie’s pads from deep behind the goalline. It’s not pretty but it’s fucking in, and the wave of sound from the crowd as the goal light goes practically knocks him off his skates. Then Pidge is crashing into him and Shiro,Shay and Nyma a step behind, and they’re all yelling into each other’s faces and whatever wild nervous energy was inside his snaps, calms.

Eight minutes later, it’s Keith with the goal, a breakaway off a gorgeous stretch pass from Hunk, that gets Keith in alone and from there it’s easy to freeze the Shark’s goalie before going topshelf. Keith has never been one for exuberant cellys but he’s caught in the moment when spins to point at Hunk, still halfway down the ice, before clenching his fists to his side and yelling. He couldn’t even tell you what he said later, _fuck yeah_ , or _come on_ , not even sure he said words at all, but it doesn’t matter. He’s alive with it, his blood burning, and this, this feeling, this is why he plays hockey.

It’s Lance who ties it with less than fifteen seconds left, an absolute bullet from the point that sneaks its way through all sorts of traffic. It maybe goes off a Sharks’ defenseman before in, but it’s in and it’s 3-3, they’ve tied it up, the game’s going to overtime. 

Lance yells right in his face when he crashes into him and it makes his ears ring. Around them, under all the glittering lights the crowd roars so loud it almost sounds like a lion.

…… 

“Obviously it’s not the result we wanted, but it feels good to get the point at least,” he says, pushing his damp hair off his neck where it itches. The game, adrenaline, is still buzzing under his skin, and he tries his best not to fidget, to look invested when a different reporter starts speaking. He’s not sure he manages.

“It didn’t look like you’d make it out of the game with a point, let alone two, early on,” the reporter says. There’s a pause, an awkward chuckle, but they don’t say anything else even though it’s not a question. Keith doesn’t understand why they never seem to ask _questions._

“Yeah, it definitely started out rough, but we’ve only had once practice together as a team and I’m still getting used to the system, and obviously chemistry takes a bit to build, but I think we did some good things, in the third period especially- good things to build off of.” 

“During the second intermission, you talked a little bit about your chemistry with Shiro. It looks like you won’t have to take much time building that one,” someone else says, and it’s still not a goddamn question.

“Ah, yeah. We clicked from the moment we got on the ice in junior, and obviously it was like that all over again in the third. It was nice, uh, an easier transition, when you already have a relationship like that with a player. It definitely helped.”

“You said yesterday, he texted you the moment he found out about the trade.”

“Oh yeah, he uh, texted me right away, excited, welcomed me to the team and all that. It was nice,” he says, like he didn’t literally say all of this a day ago. “It made it easier, you know, and I’ve known Katie for forever too, which was nice.”

The reporters frown at him, like they can tell he’s trying to deflect, to steer the conversation away from Shiro, and it’s just like it always is. His answers too short and awkward, the media unhappy with him. He wishes they’d stop making him do this.

“But I’m excited to be here,” he tacks on lamely “This is a good team, and I think we can do a lot of good things. I look forward to playing with these guys for the rest of the season.”

It’s too bland, even if he almost means it, but they let him get away with it. He tries not to sigh as they bring the conversation back to the game. Media is fucking hard.

They move on eventually, once they figure out they’re not gonna get anything else useful out of him, if they even managed that. They flock to Shiro’s stall and Keith takes the space to pack his stuff up.

He goes slow, because he’s got to wait for Allura’s scrum to wrap up after the reporters are done with Shiro. There isn’t much for him to do though, so mostly he just idly messes with his phone, only half listens to Shiro say all the right things.

It catches his attention when Shiro laughs, says, “it felt like juniors again, with a Holt and Keith on my wings.”

He ducks his head even though he’s pretty sure everyone is too caught up in looking at Shiro to check for his reaction. He hides anyway, his cheeks and ears and chest (his insides really, molten and rolling) burning. He very carefully doesn’t listen to the rest of Shiro’s scrum.

This time, he isn’t surprised when Shiro wanders over to him after the media is finally through with him. 

“Good game, Mr. Third Star,” he says, jostling his shoulder a little as he sits down next to him on the bench. 

Keith snorts.

“You mean, good period.”

Shiro shrugs. “Eh, you were doing as well as anyone in the first two.”

“So you mean I was doing terribly,” he says because Keith likes honestly. Trying to soften for the rest of the world is too exhausting.

Shiro hums, clearly trying to deny that without outright lying.

“Not great,” he finally settles on, and Keith huffs out a laugh, can’t help it. Shiro glances at him, shoots a sideways grin at him that’s both sheepish and smug. He leans a little, until his shoulder is pressed, warm and solid, against Keith’s, and Keith lets him, takes the fucking moment.

They’re quiet for a minute, just watching Allura handle the press across the room with that same unruffled dignity Shiro’s always managed.

“Honestly, she should be captain,” Shiro says after a moment, and he’s frowning when Keith glances back at him. Keith shrugs, even if Shiro isn’t looking at him.

“I don’t know, I think you’ve been doing pretty alright out there,” he says quietly, watches Shiro carefully out of the corner of his eye. The frown stays for another long minute before dissolving, Shiro’s shoulders dropping with it.

“Yeah?” he asks, hesitant and hopeful, and Keith always forgets just how good Shiro is at hiding his own insecurities. It’s part of what has always made him such a good captain, even here in the NHL when he’s one of the youngest captains in history. Keith knows people resent him for it- other players or fans or the media- but Shiro earned his captaincy, Keith knows it. It’s obvious, even in just the two days he’s been here, the way everyone respects Shiro in the room. It’s obvious how important he is for this team, on and off the ice.

“Yeah,” he says, “Yes, definitely.” 

Shiro doesn’t look at him, stares down at his knees instead, but Keith can see the way his smile stretches across his face, too big to hide. Something quiet and distant in Keith aches.

“You were a good captain back in junior too,” he says, too quiet, just for something to say.

This time, Shiro does look at him, and his smile is smaller, but warmer.

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, and then he stumbles to his feet. Across the room Allura’s scrum is wrapping up. Shiro’s hand drops warm onto his shoulder, squeezes just a little, and Keith startles.

Shiro isn’t smiling when he looks down at Keith, but something in his face has eased, lines smoothed out that Keith hadn’t quite realized were even there in the first place.

“Goodnight,” he says, quiet, before taking his arm back, swooping down to scoop up his bag before he heads out with a wave to Allura. Keith stays still. His shoulder burns.

It isn’t until Allura’s in front of him, asking if he’s ready to go, that Keith moves.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” he says, grabbing his own bag, and follows her out.

…… 

They get one more practice in before they’re off on a roadtrip to start December. 

They keep the same lines from the end of the game, so practice goes a little better than the first, at least, but it still feels more like a barely contained shitshow than an actual team. It’s exhausting.

His alarm goes off too early the next morning.

Keith’s never hated the NHL’s dress code more than when he has to put on a suit before six am just to get photographed boarding the team’s plane. He feels like he’s been awake for days despite the fact that he fell asleep as soon as he got back from practice. It’s probably the timezones and the weather and the stress all conspiring to absolutely fuck with him, which doesn’t make it any easier to drag himself out of bed.

Luckily, Allura’s car is warm and waiting for him when he gets outside. 

Luckily, Allura’s handing him coffee before he even gets his seatbelt on. 

He drains half of it in one long drag, doesn’t even feel embarrassed when she laughs.

“Thanks,” he says around the rim of the cup, means it for more than just the coffee. She looks infinitely more awake than he feels, but he still feels a little guilty for making her drive him, knows she has to get up far earlier than him to pick him up. 

She smiles at him like she wants to laugh again.

“Honestly, it’s no trouble. I’m usually up much too early anyways. It gives me something to do,” she says, and Keith doesn’t know if she’s just being kind but he takes it.

He relaxes back into his seat to nurse the rest of his coffee, let’s Allura turn the radio up and hum along.

It’s a quicker drive to the airport than the arena, at least.

They’re not the last to arrive, but it’s close. It’s barely anytime at all before they’re heading towards the plane. Keith makes sure to linger, until he’s the last to board. The last thing he needs is to accidentally steal someone else’s seat. He’s been around long enough to understand superstition.

It isn’t until he gets to his usual seat- third row from the back, right side, window seat- that he realizes he was expecting someone to already be sitting there. It’s a small surprise that it’s empty.

That Shiro’s sitting in the seat next to it, is a much larger surprise that he’s even less prepared for.

“Uh,” Keith says, surprised. Shiro doesn’t quite startle, but he looks up too quickly, fumbles whatever he’s holding just the slightest bit. 

Shiro smiles.

“Haven’t changed that much, huh?”

And Keith, because he isn’t a functioning human being at all, blurts, awkward and too fast, too rude, “you don’t usually sit there, do you?”

He remembers too late that this was always Shiro’s seat first. That he used to sit up in the front, not far behind the coaches, where no one else ever sat **,** back in his first month of junior. It wasn’t until after one particularly awful game Shiro had steered him to the window seat next to his, had offered Keith a headphone and a smile and a place to hide, used his body to block Keith, small and curled up under a blanket, from the rest of the bus. That it had become something like a tradition after that. That this was always Shiro’s first.

That maybe he’s intruding now.

But Shiro just laughs, forgives all of Keith as easily as always.

“Not very much anymore. Only when I want some space, usually,” he admits, and it might mean something, but Shiro’s never really been the type to obfuscate. Keith hesitates anyway, tries not to fidget in the aisle.

“I wanted to talk to you, actually,” Shiro says and his smile turns wry. “I was banking on you still sitting back here, honestly.”

Keith tries not to look caught.

“I know we haven’t had a lot of time for practice and you’ve probably got a lot going on but I figured we could go over a few things, if you want.” He raises his hands a little, and Keith realizes it’s a tablet he’s holding. 

Abruptly, Keith relaxes, because hockey. Yeah, he can talk hockey.

Shiro shifts, glances at the headphones curled around his neck. He looks unsure again.

“Uh if you’re not busy? It’s cool if you are,” he adds quickly. He almost looks like he’s gonna stand up, find a different seat maybe, like forfeiting territory.

Keith steps forward, before he even thinks to, and Shiro stills. 

The thing is, Keith needs this team to work. If that’s gonna happen, he’s gonna have to figure out how to be Shiro’s teammate, maybe even his friend again. He can’t keep pushing Shiro away. 

All he wants is a nap, maybe more coffee, but Keith’s never been one to avoid doing what needs to be done, even when it’s hard.

He smiles.

“No, hockey is good,” he says, and it’s worth it for the way Shiro relaxes.

Keith tucks his legs up beneath his when he settles into his seat. Shiro’s grinning down at his tablet as he fires it up. Keith lets himself lean closer, relaxes, listens for whatever Shiro has to say.

…… 

They drop their first game to Philly, in a brutal, bloody fashion, with seventy-nine combined penalty minutes, thirty-two shots on goal and a final score of 1-3. They rebound with a convincing win against the Caps, a 5-0 shutout, Allura’s first of the season, and the first four-point night of Keith's career. And then Galra’s up and Keith can feel the tension like something tangible the moment they cross the Delaware border.

He knows about the rivalry because everyone knows about the Original Eight rivalries- the first dozen years of the league where the playoffs were always long and bloody, the same opponents year after year turning resentments into something even nastier. The early brutality of hockey that’s since been tempered by expansion and time and concerns for players’ safety.

He knows about the rivalry because everyone knows the story of Zarkon and Alfor, inseparable best friends in juniors, first and second overall picks their draft year to rival Original Eight teams who’s tensions had cooled significantly to some playful thing. The first few years had been fine, competitive and fun, and then came the hit on Alfor, an accident, in retrospect, but the retaliation had been swift and unrelenting, came all game and then bled into the next year and then into the next, the same old-time hockey, bloody and brutal, from the Original Eight days, that ended with multiple careers derailed or straight out ruined, dirty hits and bad blood on both sides.

He knows about the rivalry because the hit on Shiro has been the culmination of a decade of it. Keith had been too busy focusing on Shiro, down on the ice and unmoving, but he knows it led to one of the biggest line brawls in hockey, with even the goalies getting involved, setting records for penalty minutes and suspensions in a single game. He knows the rivalry isn’t just the same basic hockey bullshit, knows both teams are out for blood.

It doesn’t help that it’s a Saturday, a Hockey Night in Canada marquee game. It’s this whole fucking huge thing that the media craves, Allura’s vengeance for her father, Shiro’s return to the arena that almost ended his career before it’d barely even begun. Even Keith gets to deal with the bullshit rivalry narrative this season, now that Lotor’s officially come over from SHL, like Keith is still hung up over one fight at the WJC years ago.

The point is, Keith has always known about the rivalry but he didn’t know it quite like this, this ugly thing like dread that sits in the air and in the pit of his stomach. Allura’s eyes have gone tight around the edges, and Shiro has gone quiet, and there’s nothing for Keith to do but close his eyes, and try to breathe around the way he wants to rip apart the entire Galra team with his _teeth_.

……

Keith tries to keep his eye on Shiro during warmups as much as he tries to keep his head down. There’s something about the Druid’s arena that’s always made his skin crawl, just a bit. It’s the shade of purple maybe, somehow sickly, or the way the lighting looks almost like a spaceship, cold and utilitarian in a different sort of way then the Blade’s home arena. It’s off-putting, always has been, in a way that seems almost intentional.

It doesn’t help that he can feel eyes on him whenever his back is turned. 

“If Lotor was this much of a prick at World Juniors, I can see why you punched him,” Pidge mutters. She’s watching Lotor, showboating in front of a group of giggling girls, nose wrinkled in disgust, and Keith can’t help his snort.

“He was worse, actually,” Keith says, enjoys the way her expression goes pained. Keith likes warming up with Pidge. She’s quiet and biting and sharp and she can keep up with him. The only problem is with her comes Hunk, and more importantly, _Lance._

“I’m just saying, what kind of nickname is Haggar? Like I get hockey nicknames, but how did they even get that from Honerva anyway?” Lance says, too loud for how close they are to center ice.“It makes her sound like some sort of evil witch or something.”

It’s almost comedic, the way they all collectively swing their heads to look at Honerva, holding court with Zarkon deep in the Druids’ zone. She used to be a Lion, way back, and rumour has it she never quite forgave them for the trade. She’s always played with an edge, but something changed after they traded her. She got sharper, more vicious, but more careful too. She’s never had more than the occasional fine from Player Safety.

Rumour has is, she ordered the hit on Shiro. It’s a stupid rumour, makes her sounds more like a mob boss than a hockey player. Keith absolutely doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t not beleive it either.

Honerva glances up at them, almost as if she knows they’re looking, gaze sweeping across them until she settles on Keith. Keith’s fears have never been standard, tangible things, like spiders or heights or demon possession, but there’s something in her eyes that makes his blood run cold.

“I don’t know man, I think it kinda makes sense,” Hunk says, voice wavering, and Keith can’t help but agree. 

Across the ice, Honerva holds his gaze and then she smiles, slow, like a secret and a promise and a threat. She’s fucking terrifying and for a second Keith can’t breathe. 

But then Lance shudders, overdramatic and almost hilarious in its exaggeration.

Pidge cackles and the moment breaks.

“C’mon, you big baby,” she says, elbowing him away. Lance immediately gets her into a chokehold, and the two of them grapple as the skate away, squawking all the while. 

Hunk’s rolling his eyes after them, trying to hide his fondness and absolutely failing. He aims a crooked smile over to Keith, and offers a fist. Keith forces himself to relax, bumps it, breathes.

It feels like the last good moment they have all night.

If there’s one thing Keith had known about the Lions before coming here, it was their reputation for playing big, important games, and always falling flat on their faces. This game was always going to be a bloodbath, but Keith wasn’t expecting it to suck quite so much. 

Keith gives it his all, he really does. He doesn’t fight, but it’s a near thing. He throws more hits than usual, takes a few he normally would have avoided, if only to open the ice up for Shiro. It feels like he spends half the game battling for the puck along the boards, getting crushed as often as he does the crushing, and it’s not enough. 

They lose, 2-3, in overtime.

The whole teams skates off the ice, shoulders tight, defeated. Keith can feel Lotor’s smugness from across the ice. He wants to scream. He wants to bash every one of the Druids’ fucking skulls in. He can still feel eyes on his back. He wants to ice his shoulder. He wants to sleep.

“Good job,” Shiro says after his scrum wraps up. He looks exhausted and beneath it all, _young_ , but he still smiles at Keith, pats him on the shoulder as he passes. Despite the way every inch of his body aches, something Keith wants to forget about inside him sings.

……

Klaizap is already in the room by the time Keith trudges in. 

He grunts a greeting at Keith, the barest edges of polite, before turning back to his phone. 

Keith doesn’t resent him for it. Keith knows enough to know that Ulaz used to be his roadroomie, before the trade. He knows enough to know he’s a bad replacement.

Klaizap doesn’t like him but it’s fine. It’s awkward, a little, to know you aren’t wanted, but it’s fine. Keith’s used to it. The feelings even a little mutual. Klaizap annoys the absolute shit out of him. It’s fine. They don’t need to be friends.

Besides, he’s too tired for it now. Three games in five nights and a split lip from a Galra elbow that went uncalled, and even his bones are exhausted. It’s been a really long week and too many hotels and Keith just wants to sleep.

And in the morning, he's just going to get on a plane, fly back to Altea and head right back to another hotel. He just wants to be home.

The stupid, tired, melodramtatic part of him wonders where that is anymore. The desert, back when he was a kid and his father was still alive, in the two months of the offseason his mom wasn’t at camps. That first year in junior, sneaking out of his billets place to drive out with Shiro and stargaze. His tiny little apartment on the outskirts of Marmora, quiet and bare, but undeniably his.

He collapses into his bed. It’s a mercy that sleep comes quick.

…… 

Keith’s curled up in his seat, headphones around his neck and book open in his lap, when Pidge drops down into the empty seat next to him. 

Shiro’s sitting farther up ahead, head bent towards Allura’s as they talk. He had caught Keith’s eye when he boarded and smiled, almost an apology, before ducking into the seat next to Allura but Keith hadn’t minded. He’d figured that was what Shiro had meant when he said he only sat in the back sometimes. He’d done it back in junior, especially after he’d been named captain a month into Keith’s rookie season, but even before that too, if with less frequency than he does it now. 

“I swear to god, if Lance asks me one more time if I want to play his stupid game **,** I will murder him in his sleep.” She shoots him a half-smile, a question. Pidge is always such a force of nature, it’s hard to imagine her uncertain or shy, but Keith’s beginning to notice. He thinks Shiro would be proud of him for it. It makes it easy to smile back, to relax back into his seat. It’s weird sitting next to someone who isn’t Shiro, but it’s not bad. Strange and new, but not unwelcome.

Pidge makes a big deal of settling into her seat, but she doesn't quite manage to hide the way her smile turns pleased.

“I don’t know how you put up with him.” 

Up ahead, Lance yelps before dissolving into laughter, loud and raucous, as if to prove his point. He’s playing some sort of game, _cards_ , Keith thinks, but he’s been doing his best to block them out all flight.

Pidge laughs,

“Practice.”

“Oh?” 

“I live with him,” she admits, wrinkling her nose. It’s a face Keith fights not to mirror. Pidge must notice anyway, because she laughs again. “Hunk lives with us too, if that helps?” 

It doesn't. 

Pidge shrugs again, like she knows it.

“Lance and Hunk had these plans to live together if they made the team, since, like, their first training camp, and then we all got our letters around the same time and Lance kept going on and on about how cool it would be if we lived together instead of finding some poor vet to house each of us. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“So really, no vet wanted to be responsible for Lance,” Keith says and is gratified when Pidge laughs.

“I mean, Allura lives in the same building, so it’s almost like living with a vet.”

Keith doesn’t say poor Allura out loud, but he’s pretty sure Pidge can hear him think it.

They fall silent for a moment, but now that she’s brought it up, it occurs to him, that maybe it’s time he got himself out of the hotel.

“Where do you live?” he asks, and if Pidge is suprised he does, she doesn’t say anything.

“That big apartment building on Broad St, over in the Alphabet District,” she says, like Keith has any idea at all where that is. He nods anyway. She pauses, not quite hesitant as she says, “You looking for a place?”

Keith shrugs, feels caught even if it’s not a big deal.

“I figure I’m here? I can’t live in a hotel forever, and I’m pretty sure they aren’t gonna send me down.”

Pidge snorts, undignified.

“Yeah, no, no chance for that bud. You’re stuck with us,” she says, elbowing him in the side. She grins, sly. ”There’s an opening in our building, if you want.”

Keith doesn't know what his face does, but Pidge’s laugh is loud enough to get half the plane to glance back at them. Shiro quirks an eyebrow, curious and amused. Keith ignores it.

“If you really are serious about finding a place, you could ask Shiro for a rec,” she says when she’s finally stopped laughing. “He’s good at that sort of thing, you know. Likes feeling helpful, that whole good captain that his team can lean on thing.”

She’s laying it on thick, and it’s the sort of thing that coming from anyone else, would probably piss Keith off, instead of just making him feel quietly guilty. 

“Yeah, yeah maybe,” he says, noncommittal, and is grateful that Pidge doesn’t push any farther. She pulls out her phone and starts tapping away at the screen quicker than Keith’s ever done anything in his life. He figures he can tug his headphones back on, return to the book he was only half reading. Pidge jostles him a little, and when he looks up she smiles, lightning quick, before turning away and Keith settles in for the rest of the flight home.

…… 

The problem is, now that Pidge has planted the idea in his head, he realizes he wants to ask Shiro. Not because he needs Shiro’s help, really, he’s sure anyone in management would be just as willing to help him out. But it’s an opening, a reason to talk to Shiro that isn’t just hockey. He doesn’t need an excuse, he knows, could just text Shiro and ask to talk, hang out, practice, and Shiro would oblige in a heartbeat, but Keith has never been good at that.

It still takes him another week before he builds up the courage to ask. In the end, it’s a home-and-away against Florida that does it. He’s just so profoundly tired of hotels, wants something that is his to come home to instead of the same tastefully decorated walls and hideous carpeting. 

“You can live with me,” Shiro says, easy, like it’s no big deal at all, and Keith, Keith is so incredibly unprepared for it. 

He was expecting some neighborhoods or buildings or maybe even realtors. Moving in with Shiro wasn’t even a stray thought he had, nevermind something to actually consider.

“It’ll be like old times, yeah,” Shiro says, like being roadroomies in juniors is anything like actually living together. “I mean, I’ve got the space.”

Shiro shrugs, and Keith finally notices the awkwardness, like Shiro’s fully expecting Keith to say no and is sad about it and trying not to be sad about it. Keith knows it’s not meant to be a challenge, but it kinda feels like one anyway.

“Yeah, okay,” he says before he even knows he’s going to. Shiro looks as surprised as he feels for a heartbeat, before he smiles. He looks softer, suddenly.

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” he says, shrugging again. “I can still help you find your own place, but it’s gotta be better than a hotel, yeah?”

Keith smiles, because yeah. It really really is.

…… 

There’s not a lot to physically move into Shiro’s place until his mom sends him some of his stuff from his apartment in Marmora, but Shiro insists on helping anyway.

It mostly means he’s waiting outside the hotel with his car when Keith checks out and he carries Keith’s single suitcase inside when they get to Shiro’s apartment.

He toes his shoes off at the door and follows Shiro down a hall lined with photographs and framed jerseys and carefully curated art. It’s too fast for Keith to really get a good look at any of it, but he recognizes some of it from juniors, thinks he might even see himself in a couple of the pictures. 

Shiro pushes open the third door in the hall, tucking Keith’s suitcase inside before he steps back to let Keith in.

Keith does, takes a slow spin around the room. He honestly couldn’t give a shit what the room looks like, but he makes the effort to look anyway. It’s all dark furniture and bland art, a tasteful floral bedspread. An obvious guest room, impersonally charming. It’s also not much smaller than the entirety of Keith’s apartment back home, more space than Keith needs or knows what to do with.

“Sorry, it’s not much,” Shiro says once Keith’s completed his spin. He’s still lurking in the doorway, watching Keith carefully, like he’s just now thought to be nervous. It’s ridiculous and so thoroughly Shiro, Keith can’t bite back his smile.

“It’s fine, Shiro.”

“You can redecorate if you want.” 

Keith raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not attached?”

Shiro snorts, rubs the back of his neck as his cheeks pink.

“Honestly, we had a personal decorator do the entire apartment after Xi’smom visited once.” Keith remembers that name, an old roommate that had been unexpectedly traded midseason in Shiro’s second year. Keith’s surprised he hadn’t found another roommate already. Back in junior, he’d always hated being alone. 

“Glad to see those signing bonuses going to good use,” Keith teases gently, and Shiro flushes again.

“C’mon, let’s give you the tour,” he says instead, backing out of the room. Keith follows. 

It’s a quick tour.

Shiro waves his hand at the last door in the hall.

“My room,” he says, before moving on. Keith wonders if he still has glow up stars stuck to his ceiling, carefully placed in correct constellation formation like he did at his room in the Holts. Keith wonders if his room looks like the rest of this house, tasteful and impersonal. 

Shiro waves at the two doors they passed earlier, a bathroom and the other guestroom.

“Matt claimed it for a while, but now he’s got Pidge here, so,” Shiro says, shrugs. Moves on before Keith can figure out if he should push.

He turns left at the foyer this time, steps into a wide living space. Bookshelves, plush couches, an obscene entertainment system. There’s a balcony, and a sleek black bar that blocks off the kitchen. Shiro wiggles his hands a little, this sort of tada gesture. 

“It’s a nice place,” Keith says, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say, but it seems like the right thing nonetheless. Shiro’s shoulders drop at least, and he smiles.

“You want a beer? We could watch something?” he says. “Unless you want to unpack?”

Keith scoffs, wrinkles his nose.

“I have one suitcase, Shiro.”

Shiro laughs softly, and goes to grab the beer. Keith settles on the couch.

Shiro’s back in moments, handing Keith a bottle as he sits down next to him. He immediately gets back up. Keith barely has time to take Shiro’s beer from him before he’s disappearing out of the room.

He’s only gone a moment, before he’s sprawling back next to Keith, too close and almost breathless.

“Sorry, I almost forgot,” he says, and then he’s holding out his hand. 

It takes Keith entirely too long to realize it’s a key he’s holding. A key to Shiro’s apartment. A key for _Keith_.

“Oh,” he says. He’s staring, which is the wrong response, but there’s a part of Keith’s brain that is still frozen, refusing to process the reality of Shiro giving him a key. Because Keith lives here now, is going to keep living here for as long as he wants or until one of them gets traded because Shiro’s Shiro and he’d never kick Keith out, not even if he got a new boyfriend or got married or anything. 

Keith feels- he doesn’t know how he feels.

Shiro laughs again, gently takes his beer back, replacing it with the key. Keith curls his fingers around it on instinct, feels the way the metal digs into palm. 

“Thanks,” he says, too faint, still staring.

Shiro rubs the back of his neck.

“You’re welcome,” he says, like it’s not a big deal, the way he’s just let Keith right back into his life, into his _home_ , all over again.

Keith smiles, genuine, chest too warm.

“Really, thanks, Shiro, for everything,” he says, hopes Shiro knows just how much he means it. 

“Of course, Keith,” Shiro says, like it’s that simple.

Keith ducks his head.

“It’s nice to get out of the hotel, I was getting pretty sick of them,” he says, when the silence stretches too long.

When he looks back up, Shiro looks stricken.

“God, I’m sorry Keith. I should have asked you about finding somewhere else to stay earlier. Some captain, huh?”

Keith throws his hands up.

“No, it’s fine, really. It was midseason and you had a lot to worry about already.”

Shiro doesn’t look like he’ll take the out, his face doing that thing it always did when he was ready to be stubborn about something.

“I’ll just have to make it up to you,” he says, instead of arguing though. “Just let me know what you need. A doctor recommendation or if you need a car or anything. Just let me know.”

“Oh,” Keith says. He hadn’t thought about it, but obviously Allura wasn’t going to drive him around forever. “I should probably get a car, huh.”

“If you want one,” Shiro says, in that way he does when he’s being careful, but when Keith looks at him, he just smiles. “I don’t mind driving if you don’t want to get one yet.”

Keith blinks at him, hesitates too long to agree. 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Shiro says, and Keith sighs.

“No, it’s not that. We live together. It’d be dumb not to carpool,” he says. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to. I’m not your rookie anymore.”

Shiro shrugs.

“Yeah, I know. But we’re teammates and roommates and friends,” he says, and Keith could punch himself for the way Shiro hesitates on that last one. “I’ve got your back, Keith.”

And it’s been awhile since Keith’s felt like he could trust that, not since the fight that got him traded. 

He wants to believe it, and because it’s Shiro, he almost does.

…… 

It’s easier than Keith expects, slipping into Shiro’s space like it was made for him.

The stuff Kroila ships up for him arrives in a week. It’s not much, some pictures, some books, his pile of dvds and video games. There wasn’t much in his apartment back home to begin with, not much he needs here, really. It all finds its way onto Shiro’s shelves, his entertainment system, slotted neatly between all of Shiro’s things like they were there all along.

Decorating his room is another beast entirely, though. 

Shiro insists he take him shopping for blankets and a comforter set that isn’t “so inoffensively pleasant,” not that Keith even really cares. it seems smarter, to not hang stuff up on the walls, to not get too attached to a living space. He can’t quite tell Shiro that though, not without maybe hurting him in a way Keith really doesn’t want to, so he lets Shiro drag him to IKEA.

It’s crowded and brightly coloured and completely disorienting. Keith trails after Shiro and his crinkly yellow bag, dodging people and trying not to feel too overwhelmed.

They pick out bedding quick enough, grab a few bathroom towels. He lets Shiro talk him into a half-dozen useless knick knacks because it seems easier than arguing. If Shiro needs to think a few dumb decorations are what Keith needs to feel at home, Keith will let him. There’s even this weird hippo thing he throws into their bags, solely because Keith likes hippos, and it’s nice that Shiro even remembers that. 

By the time they’ve wasted half an hour combing through kitchen appliances neither of them have any idea how to use, Keith is definitely burnt out.

“Still can’t cook, huh?” Shiro says, like he hasn’t been trying to work out the usage of what’s clearly labeled a garlic press for a minute now. Not that Keith really understands why you’d need one either.

Keith shrugs.

“I can at least make stir fry,” he says, and Shiro laughs.

“Better than me,” he says, without a trace of embarrassment. “You get cooking duties then.”

It’s a joke. Keith doesn’t care.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he says. It’s the least he can do.

Shiro just keeps making it so easy for him, makes space for Keith in his life without even trying, like it was always there for him to just walk right back into when he was ready.

Keith keeps thinking being around Shiro should be different now, but it’s not. Shiro’s older and bigger, steadier than Keith remembers in some ways, but he’s also just as shy and sweet and _weird_ as he was back when he was eighteen. He has mostly dead plants that he talks to, and he reads astrophysics to relax for fun. He wants a pet but isn’t sure he has the time for it. He does still have those glow in the dark stickers on his ceiling. He remembers things about Keith, his favorite animals and foods, his game day routines. He takes care of Keith in all the same subtle ways he used to, like he never stopped, like he didn’t leave and Keith didn’t cut him out of his life for three years.

So yeah, the least he can do is cook.

“Oh,” Shiro says, and then smiles. He tosses the stupid garlic press into their bags. “Okay.”

……

Shiro’s apartment is great for many reasons- the stupid big tv and his stupidly comfy couch, the shiny kitchen Keith is still a little scared to touch, even after he takes over the cooking. The rooftop is easiestly his favorite part though.

It’s where he usually goes when he needs to relax, and it’s where Shiro finds him one night when he’s too wired to sleep, despite the way a back-to-back has made even his bones feel heavy. 

It’s peaceful, lying on his back on the cold rooftop, not quite stargazing. He’s not surprised when Shiro finds him.

“I had a feeling I’d find you up here,” Shiro says. Even though Keith had heard his footsteps on the stairs, he still jumps a little. Shiro smiles, sheepish. “Sorry.”

Keith shakes his head, dismisses the apology. 

“Couldn’t sleep, is all,” he says, sitting up. Shiro steps farther out onto the roof.

“I figured,” he says, “But I made dinner, if you wanted some.”

Keith rolls his head to look at him fully, notices for the first time the two bowls he’s holding

“I thought I had kitchen duties,” he says, but Shiro just shrugs. He’s still hovering too far out of reach, almost awkward, in a way he hasn’t really been since Keith moved in, unsure of his welcome.

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says and Keith frowns.

“You could have.”

Shiro just waves his hands, dismissive. Keith wants to insist, but he knows Shiro well enough to know he’ll be stubborn about this. It’s a battle neither of them will win, not tonight at least, so for once Keith chooses the easier option.

He tucks his legs in, enough to make space for Shiro, patting the ground next to him in invitation. It’s worth it for the way Shiro’s smile blooms.

He settles next to Keith quickly, handing over one of the bowls, and it’s really much too cold for this, but something in Keith feels warm anyway. Shiro’s wearing a fluffy coat and slippers at least. Keith only has a bundle of blankets to keep him warm. He offers a blanket end to Shiro anyway, and Shiro takes it with a laugh, tucking it around himself.

“We really need to get you warmer clothes,” he says. He shuffles closer, to keep the blanket safely wrapped around both their shoulders. Keith can barely feel the cold.

Keith just hums, shovels food into mouth.

They eat in silence for a while, before Shiro huffs out an almost laugh, bumps his shoulder.

“I’d say this reminds me of all the times we snuck out in juniors, but it’s way too cold to be Garrison.” 

Keith snorts.

“Also, we’d definitely be eating burgers or pizza or something if this was juniors, not salmon.”

This time, Shiro laughs outright.

“And there’d be more stars,” he says, almost wistful.

They both look up, take in the light polluted sky.From here, they can almost see the neon glow of the VCC in the distance, the rest of the city stretching out around it, glittering with its lights. It’s almost beautiful, but Keith grew up in the desert, in Garrison. It can’t compare.

Back in Garrison, if you knew where to go, you could see so many stars it was like someone had thrown glitter at the sky. Shiro used to drive them out into the hills surrounding the city, down the roads that led to the old CSA compound to the north and they’d clamber up onto the roof of his car and watch the stars for hours, until the cold turned their lips blue and their fingers numb.

Something aches in his chest at the memory, and when he looks over at Shiro, he thinks maybe Shiro’s remembering the same thing. 

“I don’t think I really realized at the time how much I needed that, to just get away from everything,” Shiro says softly. “Everything was so much all the time back then, but everytime we’d sneak out, it felt like I could breathe again.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, quiet, because those nights had meant everything to him at the time, even if he hadn’t been under the same pressures Shiro had. It was never the same after Shiro got drafted. Keith drove himself back up there a couple times, climbed onto the roof of his car like he could feel closer to Shiro, but it never cleared his mind the same way. After the third time, he stopped trying.

They’re quiet for a long moment. 

“You know, it was harder than I expected, that first year,” Shiro says suddenly, and when Keith glances over he’s watching him carefully. “I think a part of me thought that everything would get easier once I finally made the NHL, but if anything, it just got harder. Especially after Matt got sent back down. I was the youngest kid on my team and I had no one to talk to who’d get it.”

Shiro sighs, looks away.

“Matt tried, even after he got sent down, but I didn’t want to rub it in, that I was still up and he wasn’t, so we mostly didn’t talk about the NHL. And Matt didn’t want to talk about the Galaxies, because then he’d talk about you and you weren’t talking to me, and I think he thought it’d be somehow less obvious if he avoided it,” he says and Keith tries not to flinch. 

Keith thinks, if Shiro looked at him, if Shiro asked, he’d tell him everything, try to find some way to explain that’d it’d been easier to not have him at all, than to just have the smallest bits.

But Shiro’s not looking at him, has his hands over his eyes, and when he laughs, he just sounds tired.

“I couldn’t even talk to Adam, you know. He was the only person I knew who’d get it and I wasn’t even sure if he’d take my call.”

Shiro looks at him again finally, and Keith could choke on all the words and questions and guilt caught in his throat.

“Why did you guys break up?” he settles on, the question he was too scared to ask at the time. It comes out too curious, and he winces.

Shiro doesn’t look mad though, just shrugs carefully.

“We were always fighting by the end,” he says slowly and Keith remembers that. He never saw them fight, not really, but he remembers the way, as the playoffs had rolled on, Shiro had grown more tense, Adam more unhappy. He remembers they’d stopped touching as often, stopped switching rooms on the road. At the time, he’d been too desperate to win every game, to keep Shiro with him just that bit longer, he hadn’t even realized what was happening until after it was all over. “I don’t know. He said it wouldn’t last after Juniors. We should stop kidding ourselves. It’d be easier to just get it over with then, instead of letting it become a distraction next season, when we were in the NHL. I didn’t get it at the time.”

“Do you now?”

“Maybe, sometimes?”

“Do you miss him?”

Shiro huffs, soft.

“Sometimes,” he admits softly, but he smiles. “Not as much anymore. Maybe he was right.”

Keith presses his shoulder against Shiro’s, not sure what else he can do, not sure what he can say. Shiro leans into him, quiet like he's thinking.

“I missed you,” he says finally, just as soft, almost an apology for saying it, but he doesn’t look at Keith. He tilts his chin at the sky. “I missed this.”

Keith’s guilt could swallow him whole.

“Yeah,” he says, careful. “Yeah, me too.”

Shiro almost looks surprised, like there could ever be a world where Keith didn't miss him, didn’t miss him every single second so much that it ached. It breaks Keith’s heart.

“Yeah?” he says and Keith hates himself for all the quiet ways he’s hurt Shiro.

“Yeah, Shiro, of course.”.

“Oh,” Shiro says and nothing else, but when he smiles, it's gone soft and sweet. Keith is helpless not to smile back.

…… 

It’s Pidge who tells Shiro he still hasn’t been through the front entrance of the VCC.

“Traitor,” Keith mutters while struggling to take off his practice jersey. When he finally pops out of it, Shiro’s looking at him, expression so genuinely horrified, Keith wants to laugh.

The two of them start plotting immediately, heads bent together and muttering. Keith wants to stop it, but it’s the first time Shiro’s looked relaxed in a week, the stress of two losses in a row melting away for just a moment.

He regrets not putting an end to it the next morning, when he’s awake a whole hour earlier than he needs to be for morning skate. Shiro gets him out the door and bundled up in the passenger seat in record time though, and Keith’s too sleepy to argue. Shiro hums along to the radio, something soft and twangy that reminds Keith of Marmora, and Keith lets himself relax.

He blinks awake to the sound of the back door opening, and when he looks up, Pidge is sliding into the backseat. Hunk pops in next, and then there’s a clatter that is unmistakably Lance and Keith groans, very quietly. Despite this being Pidge’s fault, she looks more annoyed than Keith at being awake. She shoves coffee at him, and it’s only his reflexes that keep him from dropping it.

He takes a sip automatically, then blinks down in confusion, because he is one hundred percent sure Allura made this coffee.

“Behind us,” Pidge grunts, and when Keith looks up, sure enough, Allura’s car is behind them. 

“And none of you could have ridden with her,” he grumbles into his coffee. Beside him, Shiro laughs, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Goalies,” Hunk says, sighing like he also wouldn’t be in this car if he had a choice. He offers Keith a tupperware. “Muffin?”

Keith takes one carefully, offers a second to Shiro, who smiles and eats it in two bites. Keith aggressively doesn’t watch his swallow.

“Dude, are you scared of baked goods? Why are you glaring at the muffin?” Lance says from behind him. For one blissful moment, Keith had forgotten he was in the car.

Keith frowns.

“You can’t even see me.”

Lance slings his arm around Keith’s neck, nearly choking him. 

“Who needs to see when I can hear you glaring,” he says, much too awake and much too close. Keith pinches him, smirks when Lance makes a wounded noise and withdraws his arm.

He breaks off a piece of the muffin, pops it into his mouth. Hunk leans forward, watching him eat. Keith blinks, surprised.

“It’s really good,” he says.

Hunk smiles, pleased, like Pidge and Lance haven’t started bickering behind his back. He settles back into his seat, blocking Pidge and Lance’s views of each other like that might stop them.

“I don’t know how you live with them.” Keith mutters into his coffee, and does his best to block out the quiet chaos in the backseat.

Luckily, the rest of the drive passes quickly, and then they’re all stumbling out of the car into the brisk morning air. It’s early enough and cold enough that hardly anyone is in the plaza, which is probably a good thing. It’s impossible to confuse their hockey bags with anything else, but despite a couple people pointing in their direction, they make it to the front doors without incident.

Keith gets it then.

It’s like seeing the VCC for the first time, except more, somehow. The lion on the top is especially huge up close, grand and imposing, glittering in the early morning light. Keith follows the curve of her tail, the arch of her wings, mesmerized.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she,” Allura says, stepping up to stand next to him. 

Keith nods.

“Rumour has it, they’re designed to be fully functional robots,” Pidge says and that’s enough to get Keith to look away.

“Robots?” he asks, skeptical. Pidge doesn’t look at him but she’s grinning, excitement finally shaking her awake.

“Yeah, Voltoron is a tech company- space and robots and what not. Some people think that when they commissioned the arena, they really built a spaceship.”

Lance snorts, gets Hunk in a headlock for no reason Keith can see.

“You really need to stop watching conspiracy theorists on Youtube.”

“You can’t actually believe that,” Keith says, ignoring the fact that for once Lance and him are in agreement.

Pidge laughs.

“Nah, but it’d be pretty cool,” she says with a shrug. She nudges him in the side and when he looks up both Allura and her are watching.

“Okay, yeah, it would,” he admits, and has to laugh at the way their grins grow.

Allura shakes out of it first.

“C’mon, we’ll be late for warmups,” she says, like they aren’t still at least a half hour early. She gently wraps her hands around Pidge’s elbow, steering her over to where Lance and Hunk are roughhousing by the doors.

Keith takes another glance up at the lion, can feel Shiro’s eyes on him as he finally stops hovering behind them all.

“Nice, right?” he says quietly, and Keith feels the awe bubble up in again. He laughs, helplessly.

“Holy shit, wow,” he says, and Shiro nods like he can hear everything Keith can’t quite put into words.

“This is Black,” Shiro says, introducing her like an old friend. He steps forward to stroke the very tip of her tail where it hangs down just barely in reach. When he glances back to look at Keith, his expression is almost shy. Softly, he admits, “she’s my favorite.”

“Of course she is,” Keith says, just impossibly fond. Shiro moves back towards him and Keith tips his head up to look at her one last time.

Shiro laughs gently, nudging him.

“That’s the same face you made the first time we played shinny.”

They stare for just a moment longer, silent, before Lance sticks his head out the door.

“You guys might actually be late if you stay out here any longer,” he calls, and just like that, the magic is broken. Keith watches Shiro shake himself out of it out of the corner of his eye.

“C’mon,” he says, and Keith lets himself be led, chest full. 

  


…… 

Things are going well, or as well as they can hope, anyway. They win more than they lose, but not by much, hanging around in the playoff race by the skin of their fucking teeth, and Keith’s putting up the points.

They close out December with a five game homestand and seven points out of a possible ten, and then suddenly it’s New Year’s Eve and they’re in Toronto and it’s _insane._

Keith might be American, might not pay attention to league stuff all that much, might have spent his first year playing in a tiny market, but he grew up on hockey. He knows what it means to be playing the Leafs in a Winter Classic _in_ Toronto. Games don’t get much bigger than that. Not in the regular season anyway.

Keith spends two whole days answering the same stupid questions (what’s it like, being a desert boy in the snow? Have you ever played outside before? Do you even know how huge this game is?) and it’s not even enough to piss him off. The whole team is riding it, this giddy, glittering edge. It’s the eye black and the special jerseys, the beanies and the stands packed full despite the fact that it’s fucking freezing, the whole entire crowd amped. It’s been a long time since he’s played outside. It’s surreal. It’s crazy. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced or anything he ever thought he’d get, and like everything he used to dream the NHL being.

And then it all falls apart, like Keith realizes, he’s been waiting for it to.

……

They drop the Winter Classic, 3-2 in overtime, and then they lose their next two, opening January with a three-game skid that drops them to three points out from the last wildcard spot.

Tensions are high going into their next game. They’re too weak a team for every game and every point not to desperately matter. It’s starting to show in the locker room, the stress just leaking out from everyone. Keith feels it like a weight pressing down on his chest, like he’s drowning in it.

The game’s basically a must-win, so of course they fucking lose it.

The day’s bad from the start. He wakes up to carefully worded text from his mom, not quite an I love you, even if he knows that's what it means. He knows exactly what elephant she’s talking around and it leaves him feeling hollowed out and extra prickly in turns. The Blades didn’t have a game scheduled for today. Back before he’d been traded, he’d planned to spend the whole day holed up in his apartment, licking his wounds, riding out the ache in his chest. It’s not a luxury he gets to have now.

So it’s a bad day from the start and then it’s a bad game where everything just goes wrong.

He’s too jittery to settle himself or the puck down, constantly watches it skitter off his tape. Can’t get a shot on net for the life of him. Let’s the other team goad him into a stupid penalty and of course they score on the powerplay. 

The next time he takes a faceoff, some asshole smiles at him from the other side of the dots. 

“Think Daddy’s proud of you,” he says, and it takes everything in Keith not to break his stick on the guy’s face. 

He loses the draw cleanly.

They lose the game, 5-2.

“Well, that sure was a game,” Lance says afterwards, and Keith is so angry he could choke.

“Sure was some defensive coverage on their third goal,” Keith shoots back, _mean._

Lance scoffs.

“Oh, like you’re so perfect, Mr. Shitty Penalties. What the hell even was that?”

“What the hell even was your entire third period?” Keith says, and then he just can’t stop saying things. He’s not even sure what comes out of his mouth, only that he’s too harsh and not wrong.

It takes only a minute for Shiro to step in.

“Keith,” he snaps, and Keith realizes distantly that there’s no management in the locker room, a closed-door, players-only meeting, the sort of thing that means shit is dire. “That’s not team.”

It’s so easy to read the disappointment all over Shiro’s face.

And Keith, Keith can’t be here right now. 

He bangs out of the room, feeling like such a fucking kid, throwing a tantrum. Maybe he is. He’s still in his fucking skates.

“Seesh, I can see why they always talked about his attitude problems,” Lance says from behind him, just loud enough so Keith can hear it. Keith barely stops himself from putting his fist in the concrete.

…… 

He wants to be surprised that it’s Shiro who finds him eventually, freshly showered and back in his suit. 

He has Keith’s shoes with him. Keith can’t look at him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, wishes it didn’t make him sound like such a child.

Shiro stays quiet, waits him out. He leans against the wall, keeps his hands still and tucked together against his stomach. Shiro’s always been able to outstubborn Keith.

It barely takes a minute for Keith to break.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, okay,” he says, rakes his fingers through his hair. He smells terrible, desperately needs to be out of his equipment. 

“Fuck,” he says again, low and sharp, into his hands, feels defeated.

Shiro still says nothing, let’s him get it out of his system. 

When he does start talking, it’s to talk about taking his car to the shop, and then grocery shopping when they get back to Altea, and then about his favorite sushi restaurant off Broadstreet. 

Keith tunes him out after awhile, just listens to the cadence of his voice. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying. He’s pretty sure Shiro doesn’t even give a shit about what he’s saying, just lets his mouth run, like a white noise machine just for Keith. Slowly, slowly, Keith lets himself relax into it.

Shiro nudges him eventually, and when Keith looks up, he’s not quite smiling but he doesn’t look quite so angry either.

“That shot block in the second was incredible,” he says. “You’ve really improved defensively over the last couple of years.”

Keith snorts.

“Like it did any good.”

Shiro just hums, stays quiet for another moment.

This time, it’s Keith who waits him out. 

“You’re gonna wear an “A” for this team someday, you know.”

Keith laughs for real.

“Like hell,” he says, too bitter maybe, but the thing is, he can picture it, wearing Shiro’s A. He’ll never admit how desperately a part of him wants it. Keith just threw a tantrum in their locker room. That’s not somebody you put in any sort of leadership position. It’s a nice dream, but that’s all it is. 

Shiro doesn’t argue, which Keith isn’t stupid enough to think means he won, but he’ll take it for now.

Instead, Shiro moves at last, slings an arm around his neck and pulls him in until he’s pressed all along Shiro’s side.

“I’m glad you’re here, Keith,” he says, again, quiet like a whisper, a secret.

“Yeah,” he says faintly, and closes his eyes. For the first time all day, it feels like he can breathe. He keeps breathing.

…… 

Next practice **,** Keith’s expecting bag skates or suicides or cold shoulders at the very least, like he deserves, but it’s just business as usual. Hunk maybe doesn’t smile at him quite as brightly as he normally would and Lance straight up doesn’t talk to him, but it’s fine. You don’t have to like someone to work with them after all, and when they hit the ice it’s like nothing has happened.

It’s _fine._

And then Coran puts him on the PK.

It’s not that big of a deal, really. He used to kill penalties in juniors. He was _good_ at it. 

When he looks over at Shiro, Shiro’s smiling at him, proud and smug in turns.

They hadn’t trusted him on the PK in Marmora.

It’s so far from anything Keith had expected, Keith almost wants to argue with Coran. He’s not an idiot though. He just puts his head down, gets to work.

They make him clean up pucks after practice, give the rookies a break. That’s the punishment.

But it’s quiet and he’s on the ice, muscles burning cleanly in the way they do after a good workout, oxygen sharp and bright in his lungs, and it doesn’t feel like a punishment at all.

……

The next game, they fucking crush it.

It’s not a blowout but it’s not close either. They’re easily the better team through all sixty minutes, and it’s electric, feels like maybe something is finally clicking into place.

There’s sweat in his eyes, adrenaline sharp in his chest and his blood is singing.

He ends up next to Lance in the goalie line. Lance, who had the game-winning goal. Lance, who has done nothing but glare at Keith for the last three days.

He bumps his shoulder.

“Nice goal,” he mutters with half a smile. It’s more of an olive branch than an apology. He doesn’t think Lance will take it.

But Lance surprises him. Lance grins and throws an arm around his neck, tugs him in.

“It was a fuckin’ beaut, wasn’t it,” he says, voice smug, but beneath it, there’s an awe that Keith recognizes. 

It stutters a laugh out of his chest, because he thinks somehow, he maybe understands Lance, just a little bit. Lance’s eyes light up and Keith knows he’s about to get chirped to all hell and back.

“Holy shit, you can laugh?” Lance says, shoving his face so close they bump helmets, like he’s trying to check for possession or peer into Keith’s soul or something else equally ridiculous. It’s the sort of thing Keith knows is going to end up on the internet somehow, the sort of thing he tries to avoid, but he can’t even bring himself to mind. He shoves Lance a step back, but doesn’t shove him away, tunes out his chattering. He doesn’t quite manage to keep his smile contained.

The ache in his chest smooths away just a little bit more, like a cliff face in a canyon.

…… 

Keith knows better, is the thing.

He’s been reading his own media since his rookie year in the dub. He knows exactly how bad of an idea it is.

But sometimes he can’t sleep and the headlines are all right there.

Back, way back before he’d been drafted, he mostly used to just read Shiro’s media, stay up watching all his highlights. It got harder to follow once Keith made the show as wel, too much going on between practice and games and late nights trudging from arena to hotel to plane to home to arena all over again. But sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d pull them up, go through goal after goal until his eyes and heart were heavy.

Now though, now Keith is on the ice or the bench for those goals. He doesn't need to watch them in the darkness of night, head buried under blankets with his headphones tucked in like a secret.

So now he’s just left with his own press instead.

They’re not saying anything new, for the most part. A lot of it is the same stuff he’s been hearing since junior, the good old can he center his own line question, like he hadn’t gone on a six-game eleven-point streak centering the top line as a rookie when Shiro had gone to the WJC. A lot of it’s the same bullshit from the draft, hints that he was only drafted so high because of who his mom is. Or it’s the even more useless crap from his first year, calling him a bust.

Mostly, it’s just everyone asking if maybe he’s only good with Shiro, _because_ of Shiro.

Mostly, it’s still just a list of all the ways Keith has to prove himself and Keith is just tired.

Keith scrubs his hands over his face, too rough, puts his phone down.

There’s a noise in the hall.

He wanders out of his room, finds Shiro in the kitchen, standing in the blue light of the refrigerator.

He’s barefoot, in just sweatpants, his hair a mess. He looks tired and rumpled, soft around the edges, and guilty.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.

“You didn’t,” Keith says and it comes out too harsh. He shrugs. His skin feels itchy, too tight. It’s a conscious effort to soften his tone. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Shiro looks sympathetic, but he just nods, doesn’t press or pry. Keith isn’t sure if Shiro’s being careful with him or if it’s just Shiro knowing when he needs space but he’s grateful for it all the same.

He reaches back into the fridge, tosses a gatorade at Keith. 

It’s red. His favorite.

Keith twists the cap off and takes a sip for lack of anything better to do. 

For a minute they stay there, Shiro leaning up against the counter, staring off into space, his own gatorade hanging limp in his grip. Keith wants to ask why he's awake, wants to pry in the way Shiro didn’t. He thinks Shiro might tell him, if he asks. Thinks maybe Shiro doesn’t want him to ask, not yet.

Keith takes careful sips of gatorade. He doesn’t ask.

Shiro blinks, long and slow, like he was somewhere far away and he’s coming at last, back to himself. 

“C’mon,” he says and finally, finally, he moves.

Keith follows unquestionably, because it’s Shiro and because Shiro asked.

They settle on the couch, football highlights on as background noise and Keith couldn’t care any less about football. He relaxes, watches Shiro watch football until he falls asleep.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up again, Shiro leaning over him, tucking a blanket around his shoulders.

Shiro smiles when he sees Keith looking.

“Get some rest,” he says, too serious.

Keith’s too warm, too tired, to argue.

He reaches up, taps lightly on Shiro’s chest, right where the C on his uniform sits.

“Thanks, Cap,” he says and shuts his eyes and sleeps.

…… 

Pidge catches a ride home with them after a particularly brutal practice.

“Liney bonding night,” she says, too bright, before ducking into the car. Keith doesn’t particularly mind. He hadn’t had any real plans beyond finding some food, maybe watching a movie. He shrugs when Shiro catches his eye, an eyebrow raised in question, and climbs into the car after her.

She spends the whole ride chattering, about Matt and Coach Holt and about some new advanced stat metric her mom’s developing that is so far beyond what Keith understands he tunes it out after the first minute.

“Who wants to order the sushi?” she says when she follows them into Shiro’s apartment, kicks off her shoes and drops her bag, a whirlwind of movement. She heads to the couch, familiar.

“The sushi?” Keith echoes, more of a question than complaint.

“Ah, yeah,” Shiro says. “Sushi and movie night. We do it every couple of weeks. Pidge says it’s so she can keep tabs on me for Matt.”

Pidge’s head pops back up over the couch.

“We used to play video games, but Shiro’s still just as terrible as he was in juniors,” she says. Shiro’s cheeks pink.

“Hey, I’ve gotten better!” 

Pidge just laughs.

“You really haven’t,” she says, sticks her tongue out when Shiro pouts. 

“Fine,” Shiro says like he’s annoyed, but he can’t quite contain his smile. “I’ll go order the sushi, you two pick out a movie.”

He disappears back into the hall towards his room. Pidge immediately scrambles for the DVDs. Keith heads for the couch.

“So, what do you wanna watch?” Pidge says, already pulling out cases. Keith shrugs, even though she can’t see it.

“Anything’s fine.”

Pidge chuckles, rubs her hands together like she’s a bad cartoon villain. It reminds him, exceedingly, of Matt.

“You’re gonna regret saying that,” she says, and Keith wouldn’t expect anything less.

He doesn’t bother looking at whatever title screen pops up, just relaxes back into the couch, closes his eyes.

It takes him too long to realize Pidge is being too quiet.

When he glances over at her, she’s gnawing on the ends of her hoodie strings. She spits them out when she sees him looking, stuffs her hands in the pocket instead. Keith can see her twist her fingers together beneath the fabric.

He waits her out.

“You know, he’s like a brother to me,” she says finally, laughs a little awkwardly. “Back when he lived with us, before I left for the Silvertips, he was always _so_ good to me. Never got tired of late night shooting pucks in the drive, going through plays with me, helping me whenever I asked and I was always asking.”

Keith smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, he did that for me too.”

“I was so jealous of Matt for getting to play with him for real. Of you.”

Keith doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You’re here now,” he says carefully.

Pidge smiles, a little wistful around the edges. 

“Yeah,” she says quietly, and there’s something about the way she looks, small and almost fragile in her hoodie, that makes Keith want to reassure her. Wants her to know that she deserves to be here. 

“I’m glad,” he says before he thinks about it. “I’m glad you got drafted here.”

He wonders if she can hear his own bitter jealousy. He wonders if she can tell he means it anyway.

Pidge smiles at him, soft, unexpectedly sweet. She bounces her shoulder against his, too rough.

“Me too, thanks,” she says and then she’s quiet for a long time. Shiro should be done ordering food by now.

“I know it probably sucked, but I’m glad you got traded here,” she says and then, softer, like it’s important, “he’s happier now.”

“Yeah?” Keith says, even though he’s not sure he needs the confirmation.

“Me too,” he says, and he doesn’t know if he means he’s happy about the trade or just happier, probably both.

“Thanks,” he says, and tries not to look too relieved when Shiro returns.

…… 

Thirteen minutes into their game against the Wild, Rolo gets taken out with a hit.

Keith’s not on the ice, isn’t even watching when it happens. He’s got his back turned, talking to the equipment manager about his helmet strap when the roar of the crowd makes him turn around.

It’s mostly just a bunch of skirmishes by that point, except for in the corner where Nyma’s absolutely whaling on whoever took Rolo out. She gets a game misconduct for it, which Keith doesn’t understand at all, but he’s mostly given up trying to understand officiating by now.

Mostly, what it means is that they’re down two players before they’ve even hit the end of the first period.

Keith isn’t surprised when Coran starts line juggling. 

They’re all double-shifting when they need to. Keith’s back at the 2C position nearly as often as he’s on Shiro’s wing. It’s not all that far from playing a 7D, 11F rotation, really, and Keith’s been here long enough by now that even if the chemistry isn’t great, it’s enough.

Lance even ends up on his wing at some point in the third, sets him up for a fucking beauty of a tick-tack-toe goal that ends up being the game winner. They crash into each other, Lance hollering his fucking head off, and Keith has no idea what he’s yelling, doesn’t even care, because it’s all buzzing in his veins, fizzing bright and clear in his chest.

It’s probably a miracle they win, all things considered, but Keith doesn’t care. Shiro meets his eyes in the locker room and Keith thinks about all the times people have said he needs Shiro for hockey. Thinks about Shiro up on the roof one night, promising they were gonna prove everyone wrong. 

Maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe Keith is good because Shiro’s there. He doesn’t need to be on his wing, but he needs to be on Shiro’s > _team._ He needs Shiro in his life.

Keith doesn’t care. They won and across the room Shiro’s bright with it. It’s easy to see what matters.

…… 

Two games later, they’re playing the Avs and it’s the chippy sort of game that Keith half expects to end in a line brawl. 

Hockey is a physical game, even without the occasional fight, all grit and grind and grease, getting to the dirty areas and using your body to protect the puck. Keith isn’t against the more physical aspects of it all, can be as tough as the rest of them, but he tries to avoid the cheap shots. There’s plenty of them tonight.

He’s doing his best to stay out of it all, so he’s lucky he’s just hopped over the bench on a change the next time someone bowls Allura over. It’s a dirty fucking play, worse than the slew-foots and crosschecks being traded back and forth all night, the sort you can’t just sit back and let happen.

Allura can handle herself, Keith knows, and he’d almost pay to see her drop her gloves, but she’s still a goalie and she’s _theirs_ and you don’t fucking touch goalies. He’s standing before he knows it but there’s nothing to do from the bench and Hunk is already hauling the asshole who ran her over off her before he can even yell. He has to take a deep breath, carefully unclench his fists. He holds it for three seconds, exhales, does it again, but longer.

On the ice, the refs blow the play dead and set about untangling the scrimshes that have flared up.

Shiro says something to Allura, checks in, and Keith thinks he can see her smile, fierce, behind her mask. Then he’s skating back to the bench, hopping the boards, and pressing warm and sweaty into Keith’s side.

Keith watches him out of the corner of his eye.

Shiro closes his eyes for one long second, expression unreadable before it’s gone completely. 

Keith gets it. The cameras are always on here, especially when you’re the captain. Especially when you’re Shiro.

Shiro blinks at him, surprised, and it’s then that Keith realizes there’s still a rhythm to his breathing. 

“Hey, you still do those?” Shiro says, because of course he recognizes them. He taught them to Keith afterall, back when Keith was sixteen and angry and alone and so desperate to prove himself. Back when Shiro was eighteen and still growing into his leadership, trying so hard to keep Keith out of fights, both on and off the ice for reasons Keith’s never understood.

“Patience yields focus, right?” Keith says, tries to make it nonchalant. Tries not to blush.

“I can’t believe that stuck with you,” Shiro says and he sounds so pleased.

Keith can’t look at him directly.

“It was good advice,” he says, and it’s too honest maybe, in a way only Shiro would understand. Because Keith has never been good at taking anyone’s advice, and Shiro has known him long and well enough to know it.

But Rolo signals for a change before Shiro can say anything else and Keith’s tumbling back over the boards and escaping.

The gifs of Shiro grinning after him, pleased, are all over Twitter later, because of course the camera is always watching and of course that’s what they caught. Keith is just glad hockey is a good enough excuse to explain how red his face is. 

…… 

It’s maybe better, or worse, when three games later, the camera catches them making laser noises during an excruciatingly long goal review. 

Keith has no idea how it starts. Half the team’s sprawled out across the bench, or perched on the boards, just shooting the shit, waiting for the refs to figure out that yeah it was definitely a good goal. He’s minding his own business, leaning half over the boards and watching them watch video over and over while Shiro and Lance talk over his back.

It’s Allura, backup for the game, and sitting on the other side of Shiro, that Keith notices first. She has her baseball cap pulled low but even then Keith can see just how high her eyebrow is arched. It’s only then that Keith registers the stupid fucking sounds coming out of Hunk and Pidge’s mouth, the way they’ve got little finger guns pointed at each other as they dodge imaginary hits. 

He joins Allura in side-eyeing the living hell out of them and it’s fine right up until Shiro says, “No, no, they’re more like this,” and then he’s dropping his shoulders and crowding into Keith’s space with his own finger guns and letting out the most ridiculous _blam blam blams._

It’s that, Keith’s surprised face and then the way he bursts into laughter, that ends up caught and clipped and gif-ed to all hell and back, because of course. 

Lance is the one who shows him, after the game, in the locker room. He’s half out of his uniform, like he got distracted by his phone, and he shoves it into Keith’s face the moment Keith clatters back in after his Second Star lap. 

Lance is laughing at him, at the face he’s making now and the one repeating over and over again on his phone.

“Ice queen has defrosted a bit, eh?” Lance says and Keith wants to strangle him, which isn’t new. The fondness is.

“Eh? So fucking canadian,” he says and face washes Lance so he can’t see the way Keith can’t quite keep his smile down. He ruins it by laughing, when Lance, face disgusted, finally managed to push his gloves away.

…… 

Lance is hollering about beaches and drinks with umbrellas and fishing when Keith stumbles out of the shower after practice and it takes an embarrassingly long time for Keith to realize why.

He knew their bye week was coming up, and the All-Star Weekend after it, he just, you know, _forgot._

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, what are you doing for break?” Shiro says when Keith gets back to his stall. Shiro’s been talking about how excited he is to go back home for weeks now. Keith honestly can’t believe he forgot. 

Marmora’s bye week isn’t until the week after. Keith had just been planning on hanging around home, maybe driving out into the desert for a few days. Spend time with his mom. 

Getting a flight home seems like more effort than it’s worth at this point. 

“Uh, is it cool if I stay here?” he asks.

He realizes that maybe it’d be a little weird, to stay in Shiro’s apartment when Shiro’s gone all week.

Shiro looks at him, a little sad and confused.

“Of course,” he says, looks like he wants to say more.

“You could come with us,” Hunk says from the other side of Shiro before Shiro can say anything else though. His voice is pitched low even though Lance is still yelling too loud for anyone to actually hear them talking. Keith blinks at him, surprised, a little speechless.

“Um,” he says, tries to find a nice way to say no. Keith loved the ocean up in Garrison, loves the heat and sun of the desert, but a week on a tropical beach with Lance sounds like the farthest thing from a vacation. Hunk laughs at his hesitation.

“No pressure, man. Just wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome,” he says, smile sweet, and the crazy thing is Keith believes him. If he said yes, wanted to go, he just could. They’d rearrange whatever plans they have, no questions asked, and it’d be fine. 

He doesn’t look at Shiro. He knows the expression he’ll have on his face, that strange sort of pride he always carries whenever Keith manages a normal human interaction, makes friends. He can’t look at him.

“Thanks,” Keith says, means it. “Maybe next time.”

Hunk laughs. “I’ll hold you to that.”

……

In the end, Keith’s glad he turned Hunk down. 

They end the first half of their season with a shootout loss to the Starswhich is a pretty shitty way to start a vacation, and then Shiro’s flying out to get a few days with family before he has to be in Seattle for the All-Star Weekend and Keith’s all alone in Shiro’s too big apartment with no real plans for the week. 

It could be lonely, a quiet week by himself, but mostly it’s just nice.

He does laundry, calls his mom, goes to the rink a few times, not even to practice. Just to skate. He gets dinner with Matt and Pidge when Matt first gets to town at the beginning of the week, but ducks out of most of the rest of the sibling bonding plans for the rest of the week. He goes to the children’s hospital one afternoon, bundled up with his scarf pulled high and his beanie pulled low. The staff give him knowing looks, and even though Altea is a hockey town and this is the sort of image rehabilitation thing the press would love, he thinks no one’s going to say a word. So he brings toys and merch, takes pictures and signs autographs, and spends hours with kids who don’t expect or need anything from him but are happy to have him.

It’s just. Nice.

It keeps Matt and Pidge coming over to watch the Skills competition on Friday from being too overwhelming at least. They’re like overexcited puppies with each other, constant movement and half-finished sentences and snapping at each other. It’s exhausting to watch, even if it reminds him of being sixteen and doing homework in the Holt’s game room after practice. At least, back then, Shiro was usually there, a buffer for their everything.

They bring beer, at least, so Keith let’s them bicker and talk over each other and chirp the shit out of everyone’s red carpet outfits.

It feels like they’ve seen half the league, and still no Shiro and even Matt looks like he’s getting bored.

“Who from the Garrison is there?” Keith asks during a lull in their commentary, because he hasn’t seen anyone from their either.

It takes him a moment to realize the way Pidge and Matt have both gone quiet. When he looks up, Matt looks like he just stubbed his toe and Pidge won’t look him in the eye. Keith, quite clearly, has missed something.

“You really don’t pay attention to league stuff, do you?” Matt says finally.

Keith shrugs. “Not really.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “That’s our Keith.”

Matt shifts in his seat, takes a long drag of his beer.

“Uh, Adam,” he says, at last, looking like he wants to wince. “That’s who went for us.”

And oh, yeah, okay, Keith could have guessed that. Should have realized it was Adam. He’s an idiot.

Matt’s giving him this look now, this careful, not quite pitying look that still ends up feeling more like pity than anything else. It’s the same way he used to look at him back in junior, whenever he’d switch rooms with Shiro so Shiro could spend more time with Adam, and Keith feels sick and embarrassed and _obvious._

Pidge looks between them, doesn’t say anything, and Keith can’t look at her, can’t look at Matt, isn’t sure if he’s ever going to be able to look Shiro in the eye again.

He is so stupid. 

“Oh look, there’s Shiro,” Matt says, false bright, and they all take the out for what it is.

……

Keith looks up pictures of them later, long after Pidge and Matt have gone home.

There aren’t that many- Shiro and Adam talking on the ice before Adam does the Hardest Shot challenge, Adam smiling at Shiro after he wins the Shooting Accuracy challenge, the two of them standing next to each other in a larger group, just talking. There’s a handful of tweets that mention it, ex-teammates and ex-boyfriends, only a couple of the more gossipy ones that insinuate a possible not so ex part. 

It’s not that big of a deal.

_Good luck tomorrow,_ Keith sends before he can stop himself, like the All-Star Game isn’t stupid. Like anyone takes it seriously. Like Shiro isn’t probably out somewhere drinking and catching up with friends, maybe hooking up with Adam.

Keith is just, the biggest idiot.

He groans, and rolls over, pretends he’s asleep till it catches.

……

He wakes up to a text from Shiro.

It’s just a string of emojis, some thumbs up and a few hockey sticks and a couple faces that Keith doesn’t know how to interpret. The sentiment is obvious anyway, enthusiastic and pleased and almost obnoxiously earnest because it’s Shiro.

He’s such a fucking _dweeb._

The laughter burbles in his chest, warm and sharp and bright. Keith buries his face in his pillow, tries to remember how to breathe around the weight of it in his chest. 

He doesn’t let himself think of anything else. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing’s changed.

Shiro comes home so soon.

He gets up, pulls on a hoodie, and heads to Pidge’s to watch the game.

……

In the end, it takes Keith two months to drop his gloves. 

It doesn’t feel like that long and like entire lifetimes at the same time. There’s a part of him that’s even surprised it took this long. It’s not like he fought every game or anything, but Keith has a short fuse. He knows it’s been longer than normal for him, even if the media has been over dramatic about just how long its been. He’s getting better about not reading his own media, but he’s still seen the questions and the tweets, the headlines wondering if the Lions’ have tamed the wild thing, like he’s an animal.

The thing is, Keith’s not an idiot. He learned his lesson. He was doing so good. He knows better, he does, but it’s instinct and adrenaline, and _Shiro_. 

It’s like it happens in slow motion. They’re on the powerplay and Shiro’s carrying the puck into the zone and then bam. Shiro’s got his head up, but Keith not sure he even saw it coming. It’s a bad hit, heavy and high, to the fucking head like Shiro doesn’t already have a concussion history the fucking asshole, and Shiro goes down hard.

They’re blowing the play dead before Keith has even moved, but he barely hears it. His ears are ringing, don’t stop ringing, until there’s blood in his mouth, on his knuckles, and sweaty hair in his eyes. There’s two different refs holding him back.

There’s a cut on his forehead, dripping. He doesn’t even know when they got Shiro off the ice.

He was wrong before. This is where the other shoe drops.

Except, when he looks up, the crowd is still cheering, and the team is too. Lance is banging his stick so hard along the boards, Keith is half expecting it to break. A couple of them, Rolo and maybe Shay, punch him on the shoulder, or tap him on head as he passes. Coran lays a hand on his shoulder for just a moment, nods, before they send him down the tunnel after Shiro.

He ducks out of reach of whatever poor assistant was sent to follow him, moves right past the trainers’ room because the lights are on, almost blindingly bright, and there’s no way Shiro isn’t in concussion protocol.

He finds him in a dark room, lying still, and he’s angry all over again. 

Then Shiro opens his eyes, finds him, and Keith’s just glad it’s dark enough that Shiro can’t see him shaking. It’s relief, fear, love love love, pounding in his veins like adrenaline, but aching and sweet, and Keith feels like he’s drowning. Shiro smiles at him, even if it looks like it hurts, and Keith smiles back, helpless.

Shiro’s eyes slide up to the cut on his forehead.

“Please tell me you didn’t fight Myzax for me,” Shiro says, voice hoarse and aching. Keith climbs up onto the table across from him, careful and quiet.

“Okay, I won’t,” Keith says easily. He swings his feet, waits for Slav to find him, doesn’t look away from Shiro’s face.

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro says and he sounds tired but not disappointed or angry or even surprised, and Keith, Keith can’t.

“I’m not sorry,” he says, too quick, too loud and Shiro winces. Keith gentles, tries not to sound like a stupid kid when he says, quieter this time, “I’m not.” 

This time, he can hear Shiro’s smile when he says, “I know.”

Keith wonders if Shiro remembers back in juniors, Shiro down on the ice, and Keith taking on a guy twice his size. Remembers the blood on Keith’s knuckles. Remembers _as many times as it takes._ He wants to ask, almost does. 

Slav finally finds him, surprisingly silent for all his bustle, and the moment is lost. Keith doesn’t know if he’s disappointed.

“There you are,” Slav says, like there was anywhere else Keith would be. “There was a 32% chance you’d run off to space.”

Keith rolls his eyes. Shiro winces, but Keith’s pretty sure it’s more to do with Slav just existing, than anything else. It’s the only reason he willingly gets up when Slav motions him out the door. He knows better than to argue when Shiro’s focusing back on the cut on his forehead, his brow doing that pinched thing he doesn’t when he’s worried. 

He pats Shiro’s hand, the only part of him he thinks he can touch without hurting him any more.

“See you after the game,” he says, and heads for the door.

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro calls after him, more of a croak than anything, but Keith is feeling generous enough not to mention it. “Thanks.”

Keith grins, feels the split in his lip pull and ache and crack. 

“Anytime,” he says and it tastes like blood, tastes like a promise.

Anytime, he says, and means always always always. 

……

They win the game for Shiro. 

Keith’s back out by the time the third period starts, a few quick stitches in his lip and just above his left eye before Slav sends him on his way. The roar of the crowd when they notice him back on the ice is deafening and Keith knows it then, even when they are down by two with only twenty to go, that they’re going to win.

It takes them three minutes to get the first goal, eight and a half for the second. 

Pidge gets the third goal off Keith’s pass with barely two minutes left, and then Allura shuts it down, doesn’t let anything past her, even after the Senspull their goalie. It should be the most stressful end to a game possible. Keith can practically feel the way the arena is holding its breath. But all of Keith’s nerves are tied up in worrying about Shiro, lying hurt and alone in the dark.

Still it’s a relief when Nyma wrestles away the puck in the dying seconds of the game, sending it up to Ryner to skate down the ice. It’s not enough time for a shot, but it doesn’t even matter because they won, and the crowd roars so loud Keith swears the building shakes, like they want Shiro to feel it, to know they won it for him.

On the ice, the celebration is perfunctory. Keith’s the first one over the wall when the buzzer finally goes, beats everyone to Allura by half a minute. He almost feels bad about how quickly he raps his knuckles against Allura’s helmet, because she was incredible tonight, but she smiles at him behind her mask, like she doesn’t blame Keith for his haste. Like she’s just as eager to get off the ice and check on Shiro too. It makes Keith feel warm, despite the anxiety in his gut, how much this team cares about Shiro. 

He raises his stick in the air, skates one half of a lazy figure-eight, before he’s heading off the ice. The crowd doesn’t even seem to care, cheers unwaveringly loud as they go.

The whole team’s quiet as they clatter down the hall to the locker room, subdued but happy. It helps keep Keith calm, now that he doesn’t have a hockey game to win to distract him. He wants his eyes on Shiro again, needs to make sure he’s still fine. Knows there's plenty of postgame bullshit to get through before he can find him, the sort that Shiro _would_ be disappointed in Keith for dipping out on, in the way he wasn’t for fighting. It’s the only reason he sticks through it.

He changes quickly. He’s done by the time Allura and Pidge clatter back in **,** third and first stars of the game, respectively. The cameras follow them in, and then Lance is clambering to stand on one of the benches, shirtless and hair a mess. He brandishes the Player of the Game Helmet, gets everyone to quiet down.

“Allura, incredible game. We couldn’t have won it without you. Shay, sick play on that two-on-one in the second. Absolutely textbook,” Lance says and then he pauses. When Keith looks up, Lance is staring right at him. He’s got an eyebrow raised, smug, and he’s holding the helmet out to Keith.

“But Keith, buddy, way to drop the fucking gloves.”

Keith knows his eyes are wide, is so sure he’s heard wrong, but Lance is still holding the helmet out, is grinning like a lunatic. He gets up slowly, takes it. 

He’s speechless.

Everyone’s watching him.

He shrugs.

“For Shiro,” he says, too quiet. He’s grateful for the way the rest of the team ignores how his voice cracks. Instead, they break out into cheers that echo. Keith ducks his head to hide his smile, fumbles the helmet between his hands, lets them cheer. 

“Good game, guys,” he says when they all quiet down again, and he realizes, suddenly, that he’s grinning. His chest feels light. “Let’s do it again on friday.”

The room erupts again, everyone coming forward to clap Keith on the shoulder. He lets them, doesn’t even mind that the camera is capturing every moment of this, to be put on social media for the world to see.

Still, he’s glad when it’s over at last, everyone going back to changing, voices light and he can finally make his escape.

He sets the helmet down carefully in his stall, and goes to find Shiro.

……

Coran and Slav are lurking in the hall, talking quieter than Keith’s ever seen them. It makes him uneasy.

It doesn’t help that they stop talking the moment they notice him. He nods to them, slips past and into the room, heart in his throat.

Shiro’s exactly where he left him.

He’s moved at some point, because he’s changed out of his uniform and back into his gameday suit, and his hair is damp like he maybe attempted a shower at some point. Besides that, he can’t see any new damage. He breathes out painfully.

Shiro cracks an eye open to look at him, smiles. He looks tired. He looks young.

“He’s on concussion watch,” Coran says behind him, and Keith only just manages not to jump. He only just manages not to roll his eyes. “Luckily, it looks like it’s mostly superficial, just soreness. He needs to be watched though.” 

“I know how to treat a concussion,” Keith says, too quick, before Coran can say anything else. “He deserves to be able to go home. I can watch him.”

He expects them to argue.

“There’s a 23% chance that sending him home with only you as medical supervision will result in any symptoms he has worsening, and a 6% chance he’ll be out for the rest of the season,” Slav says and honestly, Keith’s pretty sure that’s an all clear. It’s hard to tell with Slav.

“I’ll watch him,” he promises anyway. Shiro’s still smiling when he looks at him.

“Keith will keep me safe,” he says. He sounds so sure. 

He’s grateful for the lecture Slav gives him anyway, makes sure he listens intently to all the things to look out for, the times and dosages for the painkillers they give him. Shiro looks barely awake, but he’ll want to know all of it for himself eventually. Keith does his best to memorize it for both their sakes.

He carefully doesn’t think about how weird and rewarding it is that the staff trust him with this, trusts him with Shiro.

That Shiro trusts him.

Finally, finally, they’re cleared to leave, and Shiro lets him help him up, doesn’t call him out for hovering as he shuffles him down the hall.

His bags are all still in his locker, and he knows Shiro wants to see the team before they head out.

They’re all still there, even though it’s long past the time most of them would have bothered to stick around. They’ve quieted down, mindful of Shiro, but the joy in the room is still palpable, increases tenfold when Shiro finally walks in. The quiet mumbling stops, replaced with a silence that almost feels like a round of applause.

“We won it for you,” Keith says softly, and Shiro grins even though it looks like it hurts.

“Good game, guys,” he says, which isn’t much of a speech, but the room erupts into movement like they’d just won the cup. 

It’s almost like a goalie line at the end of a game, the way everyone heads for Shiro at the same time. They make sure to brush by him, touch him gently on the shoulder, to hug him, to carefully rustle his hair. Shiro stands tall for it, everything about the way he’s standing screaming Captain.

It’s only when they get to the very end and Allura whispers something to him, too quiet for Keith to hear, that Shiro relaxes, lets himself look young and pained again. He holds out his hand and they do some silly complicated fist bump Keith has never seen before, and he’s sharply reminded that the two of them were rookies together. A few months ago, Keith thinks that probably would have made him jealous.

Instead, he’s grateful. He smiles at Allura as she makes her way out and finds he means it.

“Hey, where are your keys?” he asks, when it’s just the two of them at last. He doesn’t want to rummage through Shiro’s things, intrude.

“Front pocket,” Shiro says, no hesitation and it’s another stab of warmth in Keith’s heart. 

Shiro’s car is _nice._ It’s his baby. He works on it on their off days, takes careful care of it.

He lets Keith take the keys without a word, relaxes back into Keith and lets himself be small again, vulnerable. Trusts.

Keith won’t let him down.

He drives more careful than he ever has in the entirety of his life, uses his turn signal and makes complete stops. Barely breathes the whole fifteen minutes it takes to get home.

“Couch or your room?” he asks when he finally gets Shiro up the stairs and through the front door.

“Room,” Shiro says so Keith leads the way.

He helps him change carefully, into a pair of soft sweats and a hoodie. He looks rumpled and pale and small afterwards, looks like a Shiro from years ago. Keith doesn’t let himself think too hard on it. He settles Shiro into bed instead, makes sure he has plenty of pillows and blankets, grabs a couple of gatorades from the fridge. He makes sure the curtains are shut, dims the light in the hall so that the insides of Shiro’s room are barely illuminated.

It only takes until the second time for Keith to ask him what else he needs for Shiro to sigh.

“Keith,” he says, exasperated and fond, and Keith stills. “Just, sit down.”

He tugs carefully at his arm, and Keith lets himself be pulled, folds himself onto the bed next to where Shiro is heavy and warm even though he’s still in his suit. Keith lets himself breathe.

This time, when he asks what else Shiro needs, Shiro just smiles. 

“Could you talk?” he asks so Keith does.

He tells him about watching Shiro’s highlights whenever he couldn’t sleep, about driving out to all the places they used to go stargazing after Shiro made the show. He talks about his dad. He tells embarrassing stories and boring ones, admits to secrets, admits to actually being kinda fond of Lance deep down, admits to missing his mom. 

Admits to how hard it was for him, trying to deal with losing Shiro.

In the dark, with Shiro warm and mostly whole beside him, he lays it out as best he can, all the ways Shiro changed him even if he doesn’t have the words for most of it. In the dark, they are safe and known, so very far from strangers. In the dark, it’s easy.

Shiro hums, leans heavily into Keith, and Keith knows what Shiro means.

Keith drags his hand through his hair, tells him, “sleep.” 

Shiro does.

…… 

There’s no concussion in the end, even if they keep him out of the next game just to be sure. 

They sign him out of the next two practices too, maintenance days Shiro takes with grace even though Keith can tell he’s itching to get back on the ice. It sends hockey twitter into an absolute meltdown, and Keith would find it hilarious, the way people are absolutely losing their shit, except Keith kinda gets it.

Because the last time Shiro was out it was _bad._

He can’t blame them for the lingering trauma.

It sticks with him, on the back of his mind, all through practice, and then the drive home.

He’s extra careful when he parks Shiro’s car.

Shiro’s in sweats and a ratty tshirt, sitting in front of the tv and looking disgruntled when Keith finally makes it into the apartment. He smiles when he sees Keith though.

“How was practice?”

Keith shrugs. “Fine.”

He knows Shiro wants more, to live vicariously or some such, but honestly, Keith doesn’t have much to give him. It was practice. He spent most of it thinking about Shiro.

Shiro lets him have it though, and if Keith wasn’t so preoccupied, he’d be a little more suspicious of how easily Shiro lets it go. Shiro lets him putter around and make dinner and feed him. He doesn’t move when Keith fluffs his pillows and asks three times about the room temperature.

He’s hovering, ridiculous, but Shiro allows it, smiles softly every time Keith fusses and only huffs out an annoyed sigh the fourth time Keith asks if he needs anything else.

“Just watch the movie, Keith,” he says, so Keith settles back and tries.

He really does try. But he’s unsettled, distracted, keeps losing the plot.

Shiro keeps looking at him.

“Keith,” Shiro says, and he’s frowning in a way where Keith thinks maybe it wasn’t the first time he said it. “You okay?” 

“Hm?” Keith says, realizes too late that it’s not much of an answer. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he admends.

Shiro doesn't look particularly convinced.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Keith nods. “I know.”

Shiro doesn’t look mollified, frowning still, and Keith sighs.

“I’m fine, Shiro.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, and Keith can see the way he hesitates, debates saying something else. Keith waits him out. “It’s just, it looks like something’s bothering you,” Shiro says finally.

Keith shakes his head, smiles. 

“I was just thinking,” he says softly. He feels warmed by Shiro’s concern.

“Okay,” Shiro says again, and nothing else this time, and Keith knows, is absolutely certain, if he says nothing else Shiro will drop it, give Keith whatever space or privacy he wants, let him process whatever he's thinking about alone. He’s been doing that all along, since the day they met and since the day Keith got traded, and Keith is so grateful for it, he _is._

But the thing is, they’ve never talked about Shiro’s injury. Shiro’s never said anything since that first day and Keith’s never known how to bring it up, and maybe Keith _wants_ Shiro to push. He wants to talk about it 

“I came by, you know, after you got hurt?” he says, and he surprises himself as much as he clearly surprises Shiro.

“What?” Shiro says, and Keith doesn’t know if he’s surprised because Keith said something or if he’s surprised by what he said.

Keith laughs, tries not to feel nervous. He pushes his hair out of his eyes, looks back at the tv.

“Yeah. I ditched school, caught a bus, made it all the way to your front door. Didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Freaked the hell out of my billets and the Holts.” He laughs again. “I got into so much trouble.”

Shiro’s silent for a long moment, and Keith thinks maybe he shouldn’t have said anything after all.

“Is that why you got suspended?” he says finally. It’s not the question Keith was expecting. He blinks.

“You heard about that, huh,” he says, doesn’t know how to feel.

Shiro sighs.

“Not for awhile. Matt let it slip a couple months later- I think he forgot he was trying not to talk about you- but by then it seemed too late to ask,” he says. He laughs then, awkward and forced. “Besides, we weren’t really talking by then, you know?”

Keith is nothing but regret.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, quiet and he knows he should apologize but he doesn’t. Shiro keeps giving him these chances, bringing it up carefully, not quite asking for an explanation and Keith keeps letting him down.

But he doesn’t have the words to explain just how huge and devastating Shiro being gone was for him, in a way it shouldn’t have in less than a year of knowing each other. 

Shiro leans over, nudges him gently, like maybe he gets some of it, enough of it, anyway. Like he can read Keith’s regret and sorry all over him without Keith ever needing to find the words. Keith wants to anyway. Thinks Shiro deserves them. 

He keeps waiting for Shiro to ask why he bothered to go to all that hassle to visit Shiro, if he didn’t actually see him in the end. He’s not sure if he wants him to or not. 

“You know you can tell me anything,” Shiro repeats instead.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know, Shiro.” And he does.

“I know,” he says, and nothing else, but Shiro doesn’t press, just stays close and warm and _there_ and it’s enough. It’s always been enough.

…… 

The days pass like this:

Shiro’s first game back, something settles in Keith he hadn’t realized was off. He finds Shiro on the ice in warmups and it’s easy to skate up to him, settle at his side, put his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back,” he says, and Shiro looks back at him and smiles.

“It’s good to be back.”

The days pass like this:

They go on a 4-1-1 streak to close out February, and things are finally finally clicking, everything practically going their way, and they could actually make the playoffs. It’s enough for them to be buyers at the trade deadline at least. 

Romelle’s first game with them, she springs Keith for a shorthanded breakaway. He scores.

It’s like another piece falls into place.

The days pass like this:

Keith takes a cross check in the game against the Habs that sends him face first into the boards and it hurts. He’s going to feel it for days. There’s no whistle though because they’re behind the play so of course the refs aren’t looking.

The crowd’s booing. Someone’s rattling the glass right above him, yelling obscenities. He needs to get up, he’s supposed to be changing, but it’s taking longer than it should. He’s fine, he’s pretty sure. The spotter is probably going to pull him anyway. 

He staggers to his feet.

Lance is heading straight for him.

The play’s that way, idiot, he wants to say, but Lance isn’t even looking at him, is skating right past him. He slugs the guy who checked Keith. The crowd roars.

It takes a few more seconds before anyone else on the ice realizes what’s going on, and then there’s two Canadiens barreling towards Lance, the refs hot on their heels, and Keith can’t not jump into the fray too. 

They both come away with blood on their teeth, but Lance is grinning as he clambers after him down the tunnel.

The days pass like this:

Coran always moves quieter than Keith expects.

It takes effort not to jump when he appears besides Keith. He doesn’t say anything though, just nods his head, so Keith settles back into the bench, closes his eyes again.

It’s not much of a game day routine. A lot of other players are more elaborate about it, certain songs they have to listen to or weird corners of the arena to hole up in. Allura spends a lot of time staring really intensely at the ice. Keith mostly just likes to sit on the bench for a few minutes, close his eyes, take it all in.

Coran doesn’t speak until Keith’s getting up.

“I played against your mother, you know,” he says, looking out onto the ice. “Fearsome woman.”

Keith smiles. Proud.

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

“You play like her,” he says, and then he’s getting up as well, heading back to the locker rooms.

Keith tries not to look too pleased.

The days pass like this:

They have the night off in Nashville and somehow Keith’s ended up piled in Hunk and Lance’s room with what feels like half the team. They’re having a Chel tournament Keith really wants no part in, but he’s somehow ended up smooshed between Hunk and Lance on a bed and escape seems like more effort than it’s worth.

He’s a little envious of Pidge, who claimed the floor space between the two beds the moment she walked in, pulling out her laptop and settling right in. She’s still hunched over her laptop now, an hour later, mumbling to herself. She doesn’t even notice when Romelle leans off the other bed, where she’s spent the last hour braiding Allura’s hair, to try and get a look at her computer screen.

“Are you on _Twitter_?” she asks, squinting. 

“Pidge,” Allura admonishes gently, “you really shouldn’t be reading your press.”

Pidge scoffs, adjusts her glasses, “It’s not press. It’s _data_.”

“Oh, is this that new WAR model your mom is working on,” Hunk says. He leans over to look at Pidge’s computer too, pausing their game. Lance squawks, affronted, right in Keith’s ear, throws all his limbs all over Keith. Keith elbows him in the gut.

When Keith’s finally done shoving Lance off him and nearly off the bed too, Hunk and Pidge are deep into an advanced stat conversation Keith has no hope in following. 

“Anyway,” Lance says, leans back like he didn't just almost fall off the bed, “who among us hasn’t looked at our own press.”

“Lance, really,”

Lance shrugs. **“** I don’t know. I like that one guy in Toronto. The scream-y one, ya know? Oh, and Gritty. I definitely check up on Gritty.”

“Man, Gritty is terrifying,” Hunk says, pulled out of whatever conversation he was having. “I’m so impressed with whoever is in that suit. I don’t know how they do it.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s no one in the suit,” Romelle says slowly, like they’re kids telling stories in the dark. “Gritty is just _Gritty_ , you know.”

Keith’s not proud of it, but the thought haunts him for days.

The days pass like this:

He’s headed to his usual seat at the back of the plane when Shiro snags him by his hoodie sleeve, pulls him to where Allura and Coran are already sitting around a table. Pidge and Hunk and Lance all stumble over a second later, and before Keith can even blink he’s surrounded. 

Keith just wants to take a nap.

“Play with us,” Shiro says, all earnest, like Keith really has a choice at this point.

He does.

It’s some weird tabletop game Keith’s never heard of. He’s too awkward and not creative enough for it, probably, and it doesn’t really ever stop feeling uncomfortable. But Shiro is just as bad, endearingly and earnestly so, and Keith uses up all his potions trying to keep him alive. 

They both die anyway.

The game continues without them and Keith settles, falls asleep on Shiro’s shoulder to the sound of Coran cackling menacingly, like he isn’t they’re fucking hockey coach.

Keith is warm.

…… 

“Is he always this intense?” Romelle stage whispers, when Keith stops to get a drink.

Next to her, Hunk, Pidge and Lance all chorus yes with zero hesitation. Keith rolls his eyes at them. Just because it’s an optional skate doesn’t mean he’s gonna take it easy. Practice is still practice. 

“Do you ever take a break?” Romelle asks, and this time she isn’t trying to be a brat, but it annoys Keith all the same. He does like her, she’s chipper and opinionated and sweet, and she’s downright nasty to play against on the ice. She absolutely makes their team better. She also drives Keith insane, some days.

Hunk marvels, “it’s like she says what I think,” and Keith tries not to feel stung.

“I’m taking one now, aren’t I?” he says, a little too hostile, and he knows it’s not what they mean, knows that this is their inexplicable way of showing they care, but he doesn’t know what they want from him. This is just the way Keith is, the ways he’s always been.

He forces himself to take a longer break than normal, forces himself to stop thinking about it when he gets back to practice.

It’s still bothering him when he finds Shiro in the locker room, waiting for him. He’s quiet as he follows Shiro to the car, and if Shiro can tell something is wrong, he doesn’t pry, just smiles at Keith and puts on the same country playlist he always does. It’s soothing and familiar. Keith closes his eyes, tries to relax.

It takes less than five minutes for him to feel like he’s going out of his mind. 

“Do you think I’m too intense?” he says, and it’s too loud, too abrupt. Keith barely stops himself from wincing, can’t quite bring himself to look at Shiro either.

Shiro has the grace not to laugh at least. He just shoots Keith a look, confused and only a little amused. _Patient_ , because Shiro has always been patient with him.

Keith blows his hair out of his face, frustrated.

“Do you think I need to take a break?” he asks.

Shiro does laugh this time, not unkindly. 

“Taking breaks is good for you,” he says, which is reasonable but still. Keith snorts.

“Like you’re one to talk,” he says, because it’s not like Shiro just happened to end up at the arena to pick him up like a chauffeur. Shiro rarely goes to optional skates even if he’s the captain, because he’s never really stopped being a little sore after his injury. He takes it easy. But he’s still at the practice rink, watching tape and talking to the coaches and management and doing media anyway.

Shiro grimaces, caught.

“You can be kinda intense sometimes about hockey,” he says finally, and he does this weird shrug thing that Keith doesn’t know how to interpret. “You’ve got to care about more things, you know?”

Keith shoots him a sidelong glance, hurt. “I know. I do.”

Shiro smiles for real this time, gentle.

“I know,” he says, no doubt in his voice, “but maybe let them know that, yeah?”

He parks the car, but neither of them make any move to get out. 

“You’re easier to read than people think,” he says finally. “Maybe just help them along a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Keith says, and gets out of the car, so he doesn’t have to think about just how fucking terrifing that is.

…… 

The thing is, maybe he was lying.

Keith cares about hockey and Keith cares about Shiro.

There’s other things, of course. He likes nature, the desert, stretching and endless, the seaside cliffs, jagged, windy, clean, the stars at night when the world is sleepy and quiet and still and he can finally hear himself think, the way it quiets something inside him he forgets is howling. 

He likes dogs, and working out and taking his motorcycle out for long drives during the offseason. He thinks sometimes, after hockey, maybe getting a pilot's license. 

He loves his mom, cares about the team, Matt. 

But mostly Keith loves hockey and he loves Shiro and he doesn’t know how to care any less. 

It’s been like this since he was born, since he was sixteen. Keith has seen a lot of beautiful things, but nothing’s ever felt like fresh ice under his skates, like Shiro’s smile illuminated by a goal light. If he had ever thought maybe there was a chance he’d have grown out of this by now, he was wrong. Time and distance have changed so little between them, but especially not this. Keith is always going to want to bloody his knuckles for Shiro’s honor. Pretending otherwise just isn’t worth it.

……

It’s weird to think he’s maybe gotten better at the media thing. 

They just keep shoving him in front of the mics, no matter how bad his answers are. Keith’s never gonna be great at it, but he’s starting to get it, just a little bit, the sort of questions they ask and the ways they ask them, the kind of answers they’re looking for. He’s had enough practice by now that when Shiro not only gets four assists, but the game-winner too, the first five-point night of his career, he’s even expecting the question.

It still makes something honest and raw stick in his chest.

“Shiro’s impact on the team,” he repeats, laughs. “It can’t be qualified. He’s incredible. It’s just an honor playing with him- he was my first real captain, back in juniors, so to have him as my captain again, there aren’t words.”

He’s got his hands in his hair again and there are half a dozen mics pointed at him, with a half a dozen expectant faces watching him behind them. He shrugs, feels helpless.

“I’d follow him anywhere. I wouldn’t be half the player I am today without him. I probably wouldn’t be half the _person_ I am today without him. Shiro’s impact on the team- there’s not enough words.”

He’s said too much, maybe, been too honest in a way he never is, especially with the media. He can’t help it. He feels caught up in it, the season, the game, the crash of their bodies right there at the end, Shiro bright and too much and so _there_. He keeps thinking about it lately, all the little ways his life would have been so different if he hadn’t met Shiro.

Shiro, who’s across the room, talking to Coran, but watching Keith. He smiles when Keith catches his eye, and Keith knows he can’t hear anything, has no idea what Keith’s saying, but Keith burns anyway.

(Later, he’ll see video from Shiro’s scrum.

The reporters will say, “Keith had high praise for you, said he wouldn’t be the player he is without you. How has he impacted _your_ game?”

And Shiro will laugh, will look shy, will say, “I’m on pace for a career year and I feel like basically every aspect of my game has improved this season, and I think Keith is easily the biggest reason for it.”

And Keith will burn and burn.)

……

Later, later, they’re sitting on the couch. Shiro’s got his headphones in, bent over his phone as he nurses a beer. His feet are bare, tucked beneath him. 

Keith’s watching tv, but mostly he’s watching Shiro out of the corner of his eye, so he notices when Shiro goes still, when he goes red, when he huffs out a breath of laughter.

“What are you watching?” he asks, carefully doesn’t look over. He nudges Shiro’s shoulder gently, and Shiro goes redder. His smile is sheepish when Keith glances at him.

Keith can’t help being curious.

“C’mon Shiro,” he says, nudges his shoulder again like he’s still an annoying sixteen-year-old kid. Shiro ducks his head for a moment, laughs into his knees. 

When he finally flips his phone over for Keith to see, it’s his own face staring back at him. It takes a second for it to click, that Shiro is watching his fucking presser from earlier.

His brain goes static, a blood rush to his face, a buzz in his ears.

_Oh god_ , he thinks.

“Oh god,” he says, and it comes out strangled.

He knows exactly what question he’s answering. He hates that he now knows exactly what he looks like when he’s talking about Shiro. He wants to throw himself off a cliff, transform into a slug and douse himself with salt. He wants to cry, maybe, at Shiro’s face, fond and embarrassed and quietly pleased.

“Sorry,” he croaks out.

“Don't be,” Shiro says, laughs again. He ducks his head, looks almost shy, and Keith just absolutely cannot.

“You’re sweet,” Shiro adds and his grin is meant to be teasing, but mostly it’s just lethally earnest. It feels a little like taking a puck to the face. He’s probably _so_ red. 

Shiro keeps smiling at him, even as he tucks his headphones back in. Keith turns back to the TV, sees none of it. Burns and burns and burns.

…… 

The thing is, Shiro’s always been stupidly attractive, and he’s bigger now, softer now, and the scars, the lingering aches, do nothing to stop the fact that he’s still stupidly beautiful in a way that’s always caught hard in Keith’s chest.

The thing is, Keith doesn’t really think about it if he can help it, but it feels like they’re dancing around something. He’s pretty sure it’s not just him anymore, reading too far into his own yearslong obsession with Shiro.

The thing is, there’s a chance, because Shiro likes men. There was Adam when they were younger, boys before or after that Shiro sometimes mentioned offhand. But Shiro also knew him as the awkward, knobby-kneed, too-short sixteen-year-old with bad hair that followed him around like a particularly stupid, mean puppy and honestly no glow up could erase that, even if Keith barely has to tilt his head now to look Shiro in the eye.

The thing is, Shiro’s attractive yeah, but worse than that, he’s so just so fucking _good._ He’s patient with Keith in a way no one has ever bothered to be, has always been kind even when Keith hasn’t deserved it. He makes Keith want to be better, be whatever it is that Shiro’s always seen in him to make all this effort worth it. 

And _god_ , his hockey is so fucking beautiful, it makes his mouth dry. He’s not been so creepy as to like jerk off to Shiro’s highlight reels or anything, but jesus fuck, his _hands._

The thing is, Keith has spent so long carefully not thinking about it, it’s hard to know anymore. Maybe Keith is always going to be that scrawny kid who followed him home and made a nest, who bloodied all his knuckles for Shiro’s honor. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Maybe even if there’s a chance, Shiro won’t let it happen. He’s the captain and it’s not juniors anymore. Maybe he wants to keep it out of the locker room, keep it professional, for the sake of both their careers. 

The thing is, Keith wants, has always wanted, in some deep dark place he ignores, but he’s always looking at Shiro, and he’s pretty sure Shiro is looking back.

…… 

The thing is, they start winning and then they just keep on winning.

They keep winning and Shiro and him keep scoring, just racking up points like it’s easy. 

It’s celly after celly, crashing into each other on the ice and on the bench and in the locker room. Shiro tapping him on the helmet as they leave the ice, bumping shoulders with him when they leave the arena to head home. Keith practically body slamming him into the boards when Shiro scores the OT winner one game, landing on Shiro as much as Allura when they rush to hug her after she posts an insane 46-save shutout in another. 

They just keep coming together, again and again, sweaty and thrumming, grinning wild and fierce, so fucking close.

_I could kiss him_ , he thinks one time, blinks startled into Shiro’s face before Hunk crashes into them both and shatters the moment. It’s not a new thought, but it feels new anyway, overwhelming in its intensity. It doesn’t stop either, hums in his brain every time Shiro turns bright eyes on him.

He thinks it when Shiro’s in his ear, telling him how fucking beautiful his goal is, how fucking good he is. He thinks it when Shiro spins around to point at him right after he scores off Keith’s no-look, cross-ice pass. He thinks it when Shiro sets him up for an easy tap in from behind the net, and Shiro grins at him like he just won Shiro the Cup.

He thinks it when Shiro scores unassisted on a breakaway, dangles around two defenders and beats the Knight’s goalie with the flithiest fucking deke Keith’s ever seen, wants to just drop to his knees right there on the fucking ice.

He thinks it and thinks it and keeps crashing into Shiro over and over and it’s only a matter of time before he slips up.

It’s like every other celly, except Keith’s the first one to reach Shiro, and his momentum means he’s either gonna crash into Shiro against the boards or shower him with ice trying to stop. Hew takes the first option, ends up pressed against Shiro. Shiro’s got his head tilted down to look at Keith and his smile is so wide and for a second it’s like time and reality and Keith’s heart stops.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he breathes before he realizes he’s going to, and Shiro’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open.

Keith has just enough time to think _shit_ , and then it’s like time starts again, Pidge crashing into them and screaming bright and excited in their ears. Shiro’s still staring at Keith but it’s easy to let himself get shoved to the side, easy to trail after Shiro to the bench, avoiding his eyes all the way.

_Shit._

…… 

Shiro doesn’t mention it later, on the car ride home, but Keith’s pretty sure he wants to.

It’s an awkward ride, silent until Shiro fumbles the radio on, some station playing late night jazz Keith wouldn’t be able to recognize with a gun to his head, but even then Shiro says nothing, just drives them home.

Keith tries very hard not to get caught watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Shiro parks and leads Keith up the stairs and unlocks the door and says nothing, shuffling along and never once looking at Keith directly. He ducks into the kitchen without a word and Keith heads directly for his room, ready to bury his head under a pillow and scream maybe.

He’s ruined something, it’s so obvious, and he can’t keep from thinking fuck fuck fuck, as he strips off his suit and tugs on an old pair of sweats, a ratty Galaxies t-shirt. It’s easy to see how this can go, the awkwardness just hurdling on forever. They’ll avoid each other, games and practices made awkward and uncomfortable. He’ll end up spending more time with Lance than he’d ever want to, hang out with Allura and Pidge and Hunk in turns and hope none of them ask, wait until one or both of them crack to finally talk about it. 

It’ll be terrible and awful and probably Keith will have to move out, maybe have to ask for a trade or maybe Shiro will ask for management to get rid of him and it’ll be back to square fucking one and maybe Keith should just give up, maybe none of this was every really meant for him after all.

There’s a knock on his doorframe, and there’s literally no one else in the house but Keith’s still a little surprised to spin around and see Shiro there anyway. He’s still in his gameday suit, has two gatorades hanging between his fingers. He’s hovering in the door, big and awkward and hesitant, and it feels so wrong. 

Keith doesn’t even care if Shiro’s gonna break his heart, he’ll do anything to fix this.

“Hey,” Shiro says finally, and it’s only then that Keith realizes they’ve spent a whole minute just staring at each other. Shiro reaches up to rub at the back of his neck but he’s still holding the gatorades, blinks at them like he forgot they were there. He laughs, strained. “I was hoping we could talk?”

Keith would rather die.

“Yeah, of course,” he says anyway, steps back until his legs hit his bed, but he doesn’t sit down.

Shiro stays in the doorway. Keith should probably say something, apologize at least. He kinda wants to scream.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, beats Keith to it. “It feels like I’ve been unfair to you,” he says, looks at Keith with these big, sad eyes, and god. _God_. Keith has always known, okay. He’s always known that Shiro’s only ever seen him as a little brother, the annoying sixteen-year-old kid who used to follow him everywhere and got too attached. He’s always known and now Shiro’s gonna have to let him down gently, finally after all these years, in the way Keith had always been smart enough not to force back in junior.

He thinks about interrupting, apologizing, if only to save himself from the humiliation.

“I just,” Shiro continues, before Keith can make up his mind. “I don’t want to lead you on, but I can’t do this right now. I’m the captain of this team and I can’t get distracted.”

The worst part of it all is that Shiro, despite the awkwardness, is devastatingly sincere. He’s looking at Keith with these big searching eyes like he’s willing Keith to understand, to not make him spell it out, and Keith, he just can’t okay. He takes pity on the both of them.

“It’s okay, Shiro,” he says, even if everything in him is screaming that it’s not.

“But,” Shiro says, and then nothing else, makes a helpless gesture, as he tries to fumble his way through another string of words. He’s trying so hard to salvage this, their friendship, the least Keith can do is try.

“Hey,” he interrupts, finally lets himself sit down on his bed. “Watch a movie with me?” 

Shiro blinks, hesitates, and it’s obvious then. Shiro’s looked worn down lately, tired, in that way he gets when he hasn’t been sleeping well. He hides it better at the rink, around the rest of the team, but Keith’s known him too long to be fooled now. He’s known Shiro under pressure, in pain, and Keith, Keith isn’t going to be another thing Shiro has to worry about. 

“We can talk about it later,” he says, feels weirdly mature about it. He grabs his laptop, clicks open Netflix and picks the first dumb film he sees, the kind they used to fall all over themselves laughing at back when they were younger and dumber.

Shiro hesitates a moment longer and Keith realizes he’s holding his breath. But Shiro smiles, huffs out this huge gusty laugh, and crawls up onto the bed after Keith. They arrange themselves quickly, close without touching, Keith’s laptop balanced on both their thighs, and it’s so familiar and dear Keith could cry.

He presses play instead, takes the gatorade Shiro brought him and sips at it for something to do with his hands. The movie is shitty, as dumb as Keith was expecting, but he finds himself laughing anyway, mostly because Shiro’s relaxing next to him and laughing along.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, only that the credits are rolling when he blinks his eyes open again, and Shiro’s looking at him, too close.

Keith jerks back, stutters out something like an apology, hates that he can feel himself blush. He was trying to be mature about this, give Shiro time and space, and falling asleep on his shoulder is definitely not that.

Shiro catches his wrist before he can go far though, keeps him from throwing himself off the bed. 

“Keith, wait,” he says, doesn’t let go. Keith’s wide-eyed and caught. “I didn’t say it right earlier, okay.”

He looks frazzled again, which is the exact opposite of what Keith’s been trying to achieve here.

“Shiro,” he says, and it’s too soft, too fond. “It’s okay.”

“No! I just-,” he laughs. “God, why is this so hard?” he says, but he’s smiling, and he’s gone a little red again, and it dawns on Keith, very distantly, that maybe Shiro hasn’t been trying to let him down gently after all.

“Wait,” Keith says, or he thinks he does, but it’s hard to tell over the buzzing in his ears.

“It’s not that I don’t want, I just. We _have_ to make the playoffs, you know? It’s so unfair to you Keith, but hockey _has_ to come first,” he says, and he looks so sad to be saying it, but Keith feels it like champagne in his chest.

“Yeah?” he says, and he sounds so young, so fucking hopeful. Shiro blinks at him, like he’s surprised, like he was expecting something else. “And after we make the playoffs?”

“Oh,” Shiro says, blinks a few more times, goes a little red. “Oh, I mean. After the regular season’s over, maybe then.”

“Then we can talk?” 

“Yeah? Just, later, okay? After the season is over?”

“Later,” Keith repeats, dumb.

__

“Later,” Shiro says, corrects himself, with this little helpless smile and says, “ _Soon._ ”

__

It feels kinda like scoring the game-winning goal in triple-OT, like fucking fireworks going off in his chest. Keith has to tuck his head into Shiro’s chest to hide the way his smile just erupts. Shiro wraps an arm around his waist in response, tips them over so that they’re lying on their sides and tucks his face into Keith’s hair. It feels like four years ago, when Keith was sixteen and scared and homesick for something that didn’t exist and Shiro carved out something calm and safe for them to hide in. It feels like that, but better, surer. Hockey is a weird business, always changing. There are never any guarantees, but this, this feels like something he can keep.

__

Shiro falls asleep first, still in his suit and everything, and Keith should wake him, probably, but he doesn’t want to move, wants to stay here next to Shiro, still smiling even in his sleep. He closes his eyes even if he doesn’t feel tired anymore, because it’s warm, and eventually, he follows Shiro down.

__

…… 

__

There’s a certain way a season seems to stretch, a relentless drag of games and practices and flights and hotels, until time stops feeling real. It freezes and slows and speeds all at once so that one day you wake up and the things that felt like literal lifetimes away are suddenly now. Keith’s had the game against Marmora circled in his calendar from the moment he got traded and it feels like he should have been prepared for it by now but he really, really isn’t.

__

The team lets him out of team breakfast their first day in Marmora, with promises that he’ll be back in time for practice in the afternoon.

__

Shiro waits in the lobby with him for his mom to come pick him up, even though it’s a whole half hour earlier than he needs to be up for team breakfast. It’s nice anyway, the two of them wrapped up in hoodies, mostly silent. Keith lets himself lean on Shiro, close his eyes for a bit.

__

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Shiro’s ruffling his hair.

__

When he opens his eyes, Krolia’s there, smiling down at him.

__

“Keith,” she says, so warm it aches. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed her until that very moment, and it’s easy to unfold himself from the couch and fold her into his arms instead.

__

“Hi,” he mumbles into her shoulder, just holds her for a minute. She seems smaller somehow, or maybe he just feels older, but god it’s good to see her.

__

Shiro clears his throat when Keith finally pulls away. Krolia arches an eyebrow at the hand he holds out to her, amused.

__

She takes it, uses it to pull him into a hug that makes Shiro oof in surprise. 

__

“Good to see you again, Shiro,” she says. Shiro makes panicked eyes at Keith over her shoulder and Keith can’t help but laugh. Shiro’s always been weirdly intimidated by her.

__

“You too, Ma’am,” he says, pats her carefully on the back.

__

“Krolia, Shiro,” she says, smirks. “You’re family.”

__

“Oh,” Shiro stutters, and Keith would really enjoy seeing Shiro this flustered if he wasn’t having trouble making eye contact. Shiro laughs, awkward and sweet, rubs the back of his neck. “Well, it was really nice seeing you but I have to get to breakfast, have a good morning.”

__

He says it all in a rush, practically flees afterward. Krolia watches him go with a raised eyebrow she immediately turns on Keith the moment Shiro is out of sight.

__

“Breakfast,” Keith says, before she can ask. Krolia lets him get away with it for now, leads him to the car. Keith’s not stupid enough to think she’ll let it go forever, but he’ll take the out for now. He hasn’t had nearly enough coffee to have that conversation yet. Or ever.

__

It’s not a long drive to breakfast, a tiny tucked-away cafe not far from the arena. The three of them used to go when he was a kid, usually after the matinee games, or before pre-game skate. They’d stop going as often after his dad died.

__

It’s been a while.

__

It looks the same though, still, in a way Keith finds incredibly comforting. The waitress takes their orders with a smile, and if she recognizes either his mom or him, she doesn’t let on. It’s always been like that, a little safe space for them to just be a family. Keith’s glad Krolia chose this place.

__

“So,” she says, after Keith’s drowned his first cup of coffee, which honestly, is surprisingly merciful. “Shiro.”

__

Keith’s usually pretty good about keeping his feelings off his face, but in the face of his mother’s knowing smirk, he can feel himself flush. Krolia’s smirk goes wider, almost pleased.

__

It’s not like they haven’t kept in touch. They talk on the phone every couple of weeks. Keith tries to remember to send a text every few days. They’re both busy and Krolia used to play, she knows how the season goes. But worse, she knows it’s easier to talk to Keith in person. All those times he carefully tried to talk around Shiro and his mom unexpectedly let him get away with it? In hindsight, he should have known she was just waiting to get it out of him in person, where it would be much harder to hide anything. Devious.

__

“I’m glad you have him there with you,” she says, when Keith spends too much time floundering. “You were always a lot happier when he was around.”

__

Keith shrugs, fiddles with his napkin.

__

“I wasn’t, not happy,” he says.

__

“Maybe not,” she says, and this time she’s not teasing at all, her face gone solemn and far away. “But you seem more at peace.”

__

Keith tries not to be surprised by that, but it catches him off guard anyway, how well his mother knows him. He revels in it, as much as he despises it. He can’t argue her point, so he shrugs again, is grateful that their food arrives in that moment to save them both.

__

They dig in for a few bites, and it’s as greasy and as good as Keith remembers.

__

“Your father would be so proud of you, you know,” Krolia says when Keith’s mid-bite, and he blames the way he chokes in surprise for the sudden burning in his lungs and eyes.

__

When he glances up at her, Krolia looks just as surprised to have said anything as Keith is. There’s a lot of things the two of them don’t speak of, but his dad has always been at the very top of that list. It’s not Krolia’s fault, he’s pretty sure. She’d tried to give him space and time to grieve, and by the time Keith had maybe wanted to talk about it, they’d gotten so used to not saying anything, it had felt impossible to bring it up.

__

It’s easier to see it now, looking back, the way both of them had grieved so deeply and so alone and clung to hockey like a lifeline instead of each other. It’s so easy to see, now, all the ways Keith is her son.

__

“He’d be proud of you too,” he says, “for not giving up.”

__

“I should have. I should have stayed with you,” she says. “I wanted to play hockey, but leaving you? I’ve never hated doing something more.”

__

They’re quiet for a long moment.

__

“I used to think one day that’d be you too. You’d walk out the door and just never come back,” he admits.

__

When he glances up, Krolia looks like she’s been struck. She looks broken, in a way Keith has never seen. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. He opens his mouth, tries to find a way to take it back. 

__

Krolia reaches out before he can say anything though, touches his hair. She pushes it back out of his face like she’d do when he was a kid, something she hasn’t done _since_ he was a kid, something so painfully familiar and yet so distant, it catches hard in his chest.

__

“I’ll always come back to you,” she says, choked up and sincere. Keith’s eyes burn.

__

They don’t linger at breakfast for much longer, mostly fill up the space with stories from Altea. The car ride back to the hotel is quiet. It’s nice. 

__

They idle at the curb for a minute, and for a second it feels overwhelming, all the ways their lives have spiraled so that they could reach this exact moment.

__

There’s a peace they’ve found now, like they’ve finally figured out how to exist as mother and son. It’s been a long time coming. Keith had a lot of growing up to do, he realizes, even if deep down he’s always forgiven her for everything. He needed to grow up to find the version of himself who could stand before her and make sure she knows that, that he’s proud to be her son.

__

“Hey, Mom,” Keith says. He doesn’t call her that often and Krolias smiles, quick enough to miss but unmistakably pleased.

__

He can hear it in her voice, patient and fond, when she says, “Yes, Keith?”

__

Keith feels _so_ warm.

__

“Love you,” he says, darts in real quick to kiss her on the cheek before he ducks out of the car. He makes it halfway to the lobby before has has to turn around. Krolia is watching and she’s smiling and despite everything that has happened in their lives, Keith feels okay.

__

…… 

__

Keith was always planning on getting dinner with at least Kolivan while he was in town. He’s known him practically his whole life, an uncle as much as he was Keith’s captain. There could never have been any hard feelings post-trade between them.

__

He doesn’t expect half the team to tag along. They show up to the hotel en masse to pick Keith up, a stocic hoard of hockey players that would have been intimidating if Keith hadn’t grown up around it. They break into smiles the moment they see him though, soften.

__

Ulaz is the one who breaks ranks first, steps forward to shake Keith’s hand. It’s weird to think they hadn’t really met until this point, despite how huge a part they’ve managed to play in each other's lives.

__

“Keith,” he says, “It’s great to finally meet you.”

__

He grins at Shiro behind Keith’s shoulder, that familiar teasing one Keith knows from years of growing up with hockey players. 

__

“Shiro used to talk about you all the time,” he says, stepping past him to hook an arm around Shiro’s neck. It’s weird to remember that to Ulaz, Shiro’s always going to be his rookie.

__

Shiro whines a little, but submits to the headlock, looks young and resigned to it. Keith blinks, feels so overwhelmingly grateful for this man, and all the ways their lives have entwined to get them here.

__

Ulaz lets Shiro up eventually, and Shiro steps forward and shakes Kolivan’s hand, shoulders back and a captain again. Keith’s captain.

__

“Good to see you, sir,” he says. “Please get Keith back to us in one peice.”

__

Kolivan laughs.

__

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your boy back soon,” he says, too knowing in a way Keith absolutely refuses to think about. 

__

Shiro won’t quite meet his eyes, and Keith’s pretty sure they’re both blushing. He absolutely does not fight it when Kolivan and the rest of the team drag him away.

__

……

__

It’s weird, being back.

__

Keith grew up in this arena, knew it like the back of his hand long before he ever even played for this team. It’s his in a way few places will ever be and yet. It’s not really his anymore. 

__

There’s new faces, new scuff marks and stains. This place has moved on without him.

__

But there’s still his jerseys in the stands, old Blades ones mostly, but not an insignificant number of Lions ones too. There’s fans with signs, saying we miss you and we love you and can I get a puck please your my favorite player. He tries to keep his head down for most of it, concentrate, but he does flip a puck to that one, a young girl with wide eyes, swimming in a Lions jersey, and face pressed to the glass. He lets them take a picture too, tries to give them his best smile. It’s worth it, for the look on her face after, for the way her older brother mouths thank you at him.

__

Across the red line, Kolivan catches his eye. Nods. Keith smiles back.

__

He’s still buzzing with it when they skate off the ice at the end of warmups, the strangeness of everything.

__

There’s a small mob of media waiting in the hall back to the locker room, and he dutifully steps out of line when he gets to them, the rest of the team following onward, jostling him and chirping as they pass. 

__

“So Keith,” the reporter says, smiling. She’s pretty. Keith remembers her, despite how little the Blades had him do interviews. Plaxum is her name, he’s pretty sure. “First game in this arena since the trade, how does it feel to be back?”

__

“It’s,” Keith says, has to pause to breathe, to laugh. It hits him, unexpected, bubbling sudden and warm in his chest that he’s happy. “It’s really good to be back. Strange, obviously, but good.”

__

“You had quite the crowd out there cheering you on.”

__

Another question that isn’t, but Keith knows how to answer this one.

__

“Yeah,” he says, rubs the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting that, to be honest. But the fan support has been incredible tonight. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

__

He makes sure he looks at the camera when he says it, hopes its obvious how much he means it.

__

The reporter smiles at him, looks charmed. That’s new.

__

“Have you had a chance to catch up with any of your old teammates while you’ve been here?” she asks.

__

“Yeah, I got to see most of them yesterday after practice. It was good to see them again. It’s a great bunch of people on this team. I wouldn’t be the player I am today without all they did for me the last two years.”

__

“Alright, Keith, one last question and then we’ll let you get ready for puck drop. What can we expect from the game tonight?”

__

“It’s gonna be a good one. The Blades are a good team, they play heavy but fast. We just need to play our game, get those pucks in deep. Obviously we’re hoping for a win, I know the team is gonna try to win it for me, but at the end of the day it’s just two points in the standings, and we’re gonna do everything we can to get them.”

__

“Alright, thanks for your time, Keith.”

__

“Thanks, Plaxum,” he says and she smiles, looks surprised that he remembered. He heads for the room.

__

…… 

__

The locker room erupts into cheers the moment Keith steps back in.

__

Someone, Lance, Keith’s pretty sure, starts chanting hometown boy and then the whole room is yelling it, and Keith has to hide in his stall. It takes them whole minutes to quiet down.

__

They only really settle down when Shiro gets up to do his whole pregame captain pep talk. It’s gonna have to be shorter than usual, because they’re running out of time before they need to head back on the ice, but Shiro takes a big breath like he’s gearing up for a speech anyway. He meets Keith’s eyes and Keith can’t help smiling at him, hopelessly fond.

__

Shiro laughs.

__

“Let’s end this roadtrip with a win, eh?” he says, and it’s all he ends up saying. 

__

“Hell yeah,” Pidge yells, and then the whole room is chaos again, everyone yelling and laughing and stumbling into each other. A couple of cheers _For Keith_ ring out, and it’s rowdy, everyone absolutely buzzing and Keith can’t help but laugh, swept up in it all.

__

He finds Shiro again through all the madness, already looking back at him.

__

_After_ , Shiro mouths, the same way he’s done before every game for the last two weeks now and it burns like fire, like adrenaline, in his veins.

__

…… 

__

It’s quiet in his head, as they head back to the ice. The lights have been dimmed, the Blades hype video flashing across the screen. They haven’t really edited it since the trade, Keith still popping up in it more often than not. It’s unexpectedly nice.

__

They skate onto the ice to wait for the Blades opening lineup announcement. In the dark, lights glitter like stars, from phones, from the spotlights, from the screens above. Shiro sways into him, for just a moment, warm and there, smiles when Keith glances over.

__

It means Keith is distracted when the music starts, but the way the crowd goes loud makes him glance up.

__

He doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting it. Most teams give old players tribute videos. No matter how they left the team.

__

It’s not long, mostly a highlight reel of all his best steals, hits, goals, but there’s other stuff too. Behind the scenes video from the puppy calendar they did last year. Footage from the children’s hospital visit the team does every holiday season. A little bit from the feature they did on his mom and him last year. Draft footage that fades into a simple frame that just says thank you.

__

It hits him hard in the chest, this warm, terrible thing, and then the lights come back on and the camera is on him and the crowd is roaring. Pidge slugs him in the shoulder, pushes him forward. Keith raises his hand, raises his stick. His eyes burn. 

__

Shiro’s beaming at him, looks so proud, and it sticks in his chest, even after the lights dim again and the opening lineup is announced and Shiro skates off to do the ceremonial puck drop.

__

The lights dim one last time for the anthems. Shiro leans over, taps him on the back of the helmet. 

__

Whispers, “we’re gonna win this.”

__

Keith can hear the promise, can feel it in his blood, can hear the silent _for you_. 

__

They’re gonna win this. (They do.)


	2. epilogue

They don’t talk about it later.

The season ends and then there’s the playoffs to prepare for because _they make the fucking playoffs_ and it’s a rush and it’s crazy and sometimes Shiro catches his eye and later hums through his blood but there just isn’t enough time.

So they don’t talk about it.

__

And then they get knocked out of the playoffs.

__

First Round, Game Seven, and it’s a knock-down, drag-out, dirty fight they lose.

__

Game Seven and they fucking _lose._

__

They were always the longshots, the second wildcard team going up against the defending champs. No one expected them to make it out of the round. It’s impressive enough they even took it to seven games, especially after they dropped the first two in Tampa. If anything, Keith should feel _proud._

__

But they had gotten so close. Close enough that Keith can taste it like blood on his teeth.

__

Locker cleanout always sucks, but this one hits harder than normal. The whole room’s quiet, even Shiro, exhausted and defeated and _sad._ It’s a trudge to get through exit interviews and then all the media bullshit, stretching on for so long Keith wants to scream. And then, just like that, it’s all over. Just like that he’s standing outside the arena with his bag around his shoulders and Shiro silent next to him, and it’s officially the off-season. It’s the off-season and Keith has no idea what he’s gonna do with himself.

__

He’s already got an invitation to play for Team America at Worlds. The smart thing to do would be decline, probably, to rest and let his bruised ribs heal. But Keith isn’t ready to stop.

__

The drive home is weird, a suffocating sort of silent until Shiro punches on the radio. Of course, the first thing to come on is some DJ talking about them getting knocked out of the playoffs and Shiro’s arm shoots out to change the station so fast he swerves a little. It’d be funny, except it mostly just feels like a suckerpunch to the gut.

__

Shiro settles on a Top-40 station instead, offensive if only for how bad the music is, but it’s better than silence, better than the way Shiro keeps sneaking looks at him when he thinks Keith isn’t looking, like he’s maybe afraid Keith’s going to just absolutely lose it.

__

Keith doesn’t blame him. 

__

Shiro heads for the kitchen the moment they get inside, and Keith trails after him out of habit more than anything else, catches the gatorade Shiro tosses at him without really even seeing it.

__

Lance has been bothering him for weeks now, trying to get him to promise to a vacation this summer. There’s a text on his phone that he still hasn’t responded to, that just says _c’mon, you’re gonna miss me we bonded!!!!_ and Keith is almost considering it.

__

Worlds is in Tokyo this year, won’t take up more than the next couple of weeks. There’s probably a couple of camps he should RSVP to, probably needs to get a hold of his agent to ask. He should probably figure out his off-season training schedule. 

__

He should probably visit his mom, maybe go on a trip with her, just the two of them and the desert, the way it stretches endless and burning.

__

He’s still got the apartment in Marmora, if nothing else. Shiro’s probably going home to see his family. Probably has camps and trips already planned. The bye-week was one thing. It would be weird to stay here without him in the off-season. 

__

Shiro won’t stop looking at him.

__

“What?” Keith asks finally. 

__

Shiro shrugs.

__

“It’s later,” he says, quiet, a little uncertain and oh. _Oh._

__

“Oh,” Keith says, and he blames the fact that he’s exhausted down to his bones for the way he giggles, nervous.

__

“Yeah,” Shiro says, does this half-aborted shrug. He sounds nervous too, which is a trip, makes Keith feel a little woozy in the head. Makes Keith feel bold.

__

“Can I kiss you?” Keith asks, _demands,_ really. Shiro laughs, this punched out, shocky little sound.

__

“Yeah,” Shiro says, gratifyingly quick. “Yes,” and then, hoarse and unexpectedly desperate, _“Keith._ ”

__

It hits Keith right in the chest, the way Shiro says his name. It’s incredible and terrifying, and for a second Keith can’t move. 

__

But it’s Shiro, and Keith’s never felt more sure of anything except maybe hockey. It’s easy, or easier than Keith maybe always thought, to step in close.

__

Shiro’s still taller than him, Keith still has to tilt his head up, but it hardly seems far at all. He’s maybe holding his breath. Shiro’s maybe holding his too.

__

“God, if sixteen-year-old me could see me now,” Keith says, has just enough time to watch the way Shiro’s eyes go shocked and wide before he presses up into Shiro.

__

For a second they aren’t touching anywhere except for where their lips meet. For a second, Keith can’t breathe.

__

And then Shiro makes a sound against his mouth, soft like a sigh, and folds into Keith, touches the edge of his jaw and just brushes the curve of his hip, and Keith melts.

__

It’s insistent and soft and steady all in turns, and for all that this, this is brand new, Keith has known every inch of Shiro’s body for years, like it was his own, and even this feels familiar in its own way.

__

Shiro pulls away eventually, and Keith gets distracted by the way his lips have gone bruised and red, almost doesn’t hear Shiro when he speaks. 

__

“I’m going to Garrison in late July. I promised Matt and Pidge I’d train with them,” Shiro says, and he sounds breathless. He hunches over, presses his face into Keith’s neck. “You should come. If you want,” he adds, muffled, sounds almost shy like he doesn’t have Keith pressed up against his refrigerator door.

__

“Yeah?” Keith says, breathes out the word, really. He waits for Shiro’s careful nod, delights in the way his hair tickles the skin below his chin. His fingers are twisted in the back of Shiro’s shirt and it feels like the last nine months hit him all at once, could knock him right over if Shiro wasn’t there to hold him up. He’s never been happier.

__

“Yeah, yeah okay. I can do that,” he says, and when Shiro pulls himself up to look Keith in the eyes, Keith can’t contain his grin.

__

“Yeah?” Shiro says, and he looks ridiculous, eyes bright and hair a mess, and god, he’s everything.

__

“Of course,” Keith says, and suddenly, just like that, it’s like his whole offseason is booked up.

__

Shiro lights up, like Keith could have said no, like there is a single universe where Keith would ever say no, and his smile is boyish and so sweet, Keith can’t not kiss him again. 

__

__

“Next year,” Shiro mumbles against his mouth. It takes a moment for Keith to pull away.

__

“What?” he says, breathless.

__

“Next year. It’s gonna be our year,” Shiro says, like a promise and he’s smiling so bright and Keith can’t not believe him.

__

“You and me,” Keith says, presses his forehead against Shiro’s. He pauses, smiles. “And the rest of them, I guess.”

__

And Shiro is laughing into his mouth when he swoops down and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> And again, a HUGE thank you to Ludicrous for making such incredible art for this, [ please make sure you let them know how incredible they are!!](https://twitter.com/engraved10/status/1210335591004377088?s=20)


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